MRS
V,n'^»»
15 JUi
Ma^AiL^
'.■A. ■JH^'^A-if
i
SERMONS
BY
J. B. MASSILLON,
BISHOP OF CLERMONT.
TO WHICH IS PBEPIXED, '" " '
THE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR-
SELECTED A.^D TRANSLATED
BY WILLIAM DICKSON.
SECOND AMERICAN EDITION,
REVISED AND MATERIALLY CORRECTED,
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. L
PHILADELPHIA:
PUBLISHED BY M. CAREY AND SON,
C0R17ER OF FOURTH AND CHESXUT STREETS,
D. ALLISOir, FRI?TT£R.
1818.
THENEW YORIS:
PUBLIC LIBRARY
;; ir 'tt CO ' -t
' ' *rro*«, LEwox «"»o
• riLOF.N FOUNOATlOWft.
!ii'. «310 L
EAÇTBÎIIN btVPRl/jf' of pisj^'sVLV'ANIA, to wit .
Bvîtïemémbere'H, 'rhat on the third day of October, in the forty-third year of the inde-
pendence of the United States of America, A. D. 1818, M. Carey & Son, of the said
district, have deposited in this office the title of a book, the right whereof they claim as
proprietors, in the words followlng, to wit :
Sermons by J. B. Massillon, Bishop of Clermont. To which is prefixed, the Life of
the Author. Selected and translated by William Dickson. Second American edition, re-
vised and materially corrected. In two volumes.
In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, intituled, " An act for
the Encouragement of Learning, by securing the copies of Maps, Charts, and Books,
to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned."—
And also to the act, entitled, " An act supplementary to an act, entitled, " An act for
the Encouragement of Learning, by securing the copies of Maps, Charts, and Books, to
the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned,' and ex-
tending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving, and etching historical and
other Prints."
D. CALDWELL,
Clei'k of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
TO THE PUBLIC.
IT is equally proper for a translator, as for an author,
to give some explanation (not apology, for surely a ge-
nerous public will require none, when the dissemination
of virtue is evidently the purpose) of the production
which he obtrudes upon the public.
This translation was at first undertaken merely for the
recreation, during illness, of the translator ; his admira-
tion of Massilloii's abilities increasing as he went on, he
was induced to continue far beyond his first intention ;
that animation, that unction, as D'Alembert says, w^hich
flowed from his pen on every subject, that gende, yet
feeling address to the hearts of his hearers, and to which
the most indifferent could not refuse attention, struck
him so forcibly, that he could not reflect, without sur-
prise, that no translation of his works had as yet appeared
in English. Impressed with a conviction of their moral
tendency, he determined, in consequence of the appro=
bation of some respectable clergymen, his friends, to
publish a selection of such as, unconnected with local or
temporary events in France, would, in his opinion, be an
acceptable present to Christians of every denomination.
He now offers the present volumes to the public ; and so
impressed is he with a sense of their merit, that he is
convinced that the weakness, or the inaccuracy of the
translation, can alone prevent a generous public from re-
ceiving them favourably.
iv translator's preface.
In the translation, he has endeavoured, as much as in
hhn lay, to convey the meaning and sentiments of his
original ; in doing of which, he may perhaps be thought
sometimes too literal ; but if the meaning be conveyed,
surely the error is on the safest side ; for many of our
translations may with much more propriety be called
paraphrases than translations ; and (at least in the trans-
lator's opinion) it is much better to err in keeping ra-
ther too closely to the text, than, by studiously avoiding
the appearance of literal ity, to render the sense both ob-
scure and unintelligible. If the translator be mistaken,
it is an error which in future may easily be corrected ;
and this being his first publication, he trusts that a gene-
rous public will not cashier a subaltern, because he may
not as yet be capable of discharging the duty of a gene-
ral officer.
The translator takes this opportunity of returning his
acknowledgements to his friends above mentioned, from
whose advice he has reaped many advantages.
ADVERTISEMENT
OF THE
AMERICAN EDITOR.
NOTWITHSTANDING the great reputation which
the Sermons of Massillon have justiy obtained, they
were inaccessible to mere Jilnglish readers until the ap-
pearance of the translation which forms the basis of the
one now published.
However praiseworthy the intentions of the Scottish
translator may have been, his work is in no wise calcu-
lated to convey an adequate idea of the original. His
preference for a literal over a paraphrastic version is
evinced in every page, while at the same time he fre-
quently mistakes or perverts the meaning of his author,
and in several instances has engrafted ornaments after
his own taste upon the simple but beautiful eloquence
of the French preacher. An American edition, how-
ever, of these Sermons being called for, it was thought
proper by the publishers rather to print this translation,
with such corrections as were absolutely necessary, than
to undertake a new version. It has been the aim of the
present editor, to free it as far as possible from the
French and Scottish idioms with which it abounded,
and to render it a more perfect copy of the original,
by restoring the sense of passages which the English
translator had mistaken. He is aware, how^ever, that it
may still be considered too close a translation, and that
other defects may still remain ; but it ought to be borne
in mind that his duty was limited to the correction of
the principal errors, and did not extend to a re-modelling
of the entire work ; and he trusts that, when compared
with the Eng;lish edition, it will be found to be greatly
VI
ADVERTISEMENT.
inrproved. — That some idea may be formed of the eiTors
and insufficiency of the original translation, a few speci-
mens are subjoined, selected almost at random from
thousands.
Tout y est rempli^ occupé par les créatures; oil voulez-
vous que Dieu trouve sa place ? (Sur la prière.)
SCOTCH EDITION.
It is wholly filled with the
creatures ; where then should
God find his place in it ?
AMERICAN EDITION.
It is wholly filled with created
beings ; where then should the
Creator find a place in it ?
Et certes rendez gloire ici à la vérité : n'' est-il pas vrai que
les jours oit vous avez vécu avec plus d'attention sur vous-
mêmes ; ^c. (Sur la prière,)
And after all, render glory
here to the truth. Is it not true
that the days in which you have
been more guarded upon your-
i^elfi 8cc.
And after all, give the truth
its proper glory. Is it not true
that the days in which you have
been most guarded; Sec.
A cela je pour rots vous répondre d'^ahord,^ en établissant les
fondemens de la doctrine chrétienne sur V amour de nos frères :
Cet homme pour vous déplaire et n'être pas de votre goût .^ en
est-il moins votre frère^ enfant de Dieu^ citoyen du ciel? £i?c.
(Pardon des offenses.)
To this I miî^ht at once an-
swer, by csiablishint^ the foun-
dations of the Christian doctrine
2ifion loving our brethren : Is
that man, in consequence of dis-
pleasini!^,and being disagreeable
to your fancy, less your brother,
child of God, citizen of heaven,
Sec.
To this I might answer at
once, by establishing the foun-
dations of the Christian doctrine
upon the love of our brethren :
Is the man who hafifinis to be
displeasing, and disagreeable to
your fancy, less your brother,
the child of God, &c.
II a renversé votre fortune temporelle.^ je le veux ; et en le
haïssant., vous renversez le fondcjiieiit de votre salut éternel.
(Pardon des offenses.)
(Omitted altogether in the
English edition )
He has been the means of
overthrowing your temporal for-
tune, you say ; supposing this
to be the case, by hating him
you destroy the foundation of
your eternal fortune.
ADVERTISEMENT.
vil
On ne serait pas déshonoré en trempant ses mains dans le
sang de son frère ; et on le serait en obéissant à Dieii^ et à celui
que tient sa place sur la terre ? (Pardon des offenses.)
It should be no dishonour to
bathe your hanris in your bro-
ther's blood, ivhile it would be
one, to obey God, and the prince
who holds his place in the world!
Shall it be accounted no dis-
honour to bathe your hands in
your brother's blood, and yet be
considered disgraceful^ to obey
God, and the prince who rcprc'
sents him on earth ?
Comme la ressource vile et vulgaire de ceux qui n'ont rien
qui les signale. (Pardon des ofenses.)
As the vile and vulgar refuge
of those who have nothing sig-
nal to establish their character.
As the vile and vulgar refuge
of those who have nothing where-
with to signalize themselves.
Voilà le secret divin de la pénitence : comme elle fait ici-bas
envers Vàme criminelle .^ dit Tertullien, la foîiction de la jus-
tice de Dieu, et que la justice de Dieu punira un jour par la
privation éternelle de toutes les créatures dont le pécheur a
abusé.^ ^c. (La Pécheresse.)
Behold the divine secret of
penitence î As \\. performs here
below, says Tertullien, the office
o/' God's justice towards the cri-
minal soul, and as the justice of
God shall one day punish guilt
by the eternal privation of all
things which the sinner hath
abused, &c.
Behold the divine secret of
penitence Î As it officiates here
below towards the criminal soul,
says Tertullien, as the justice of
God ; and as the justice of God
shall one day punish guilt by
the eternal privation of all crea-
tures which the sinner hath
abused, &c.
Première raison de P inutilité de notre ministère. Car com-
ment voulez-vous qu^une démarche tout profane serve de dis-
position à la grace f (Sur la parole de Dieu.)
This is the first cause of the
inutility of our ministry. For
how is it possible that a pro-
ceeding so profane should fur-
nish a disposition to grace ?
First cause of the inutility of
our ministry. For how is it
possible that a proceeding alto-
gether profane^ send a disposi-
tion to grace r
— et tandis qu'en secret vous êtes Vâme la plus lâche et la plus
timide.^ la plus abattue au premier peril qui vous menace.^ la
moins ferme contre les évènemens.^ la plus agitée au gré des es-
pérances et des craintes frivoles de la terre., vous vous piquez
de courage contre la vérité : (Sur la parole de Dieu.)
vin
ADVERTISEMENT.
And while you are internally
the mealiest and mont ccnuardlij
soul, the most dejected by the
first danger which threatens
you, the most disheartened by
the smallest accident, the very
shuttle-cock of c-very frivolous
hofie and fear of the earth, you
pique yourself, Sec.
Demandez à Dieu., à la boiine heure., pour la gloire de
r Eglise, et pour P honneur de son' Evangile, qu''il suscite a son
peuple des ouvriers puissans en parole; de ces hommes que
Ponction seule de V esprit de Dieu rend eloquens, i^c. (La pa-
role de Dieu.)
And while you are internally
the most timid and cowardly of
beings, dejected by the first dan-
ger which threatens you, dis-
heartened by the smallest acci-
dent, and agitated by all the
hofies and fears of this world,
you pique yourself, Sec.
Demand of God, good and
well, t'lat, for the giory of Ûw
church u:.d the honour of his
goSj-e>-, he raise up to his people
labourers powerful in speech,
of those men whom the sole unc-
tion of the Spirit of God ren-
ders, 8cc.
Eh I pourquoi venez-vous vous arrêter à nos foibles talens
et chercher des qualités humaines ou Dieu seul parle et agit P
(La parole de Dieu.)
Pray to God. if you chojse,
thai, for the glory of the church
and the honour of his gospel, he
may raise up to his people la-
bourers powerful in speech,
men nvhoni the mere unction of
the Spirit of God renders, &;c.
O 1 why do you come to loiter
away with our feeble talents, or
to seek human qualifications
where God alone speaketh and
acteth ?
Oh ! why do you waste your
time on our feeljlc talents, or
seek human qualifications where
God alone speaketh and acteth ?
Avez vous consulté si la doctrine que Jésus Christ nous a
apportée du. ciel, souscrivoit à la nouveauté et au danger de ces
maximes P (Sur le salut.)
Have you consulted whether
the doctrine brought us by Je-
sus Christ from heaven sud-
scj'ibcd to the novelty and the
danger of these maxims?
Have you consulted whether
the doctrine brought us by Je-
sus Christ from heaven sanc-
tions these novel and dangerous
maxims ?
La jeunesse s"" éteint, les années se précipitent : et semblables,
dit r Ecriture, aux eaux que coulent dans la mer, et qui ne re-
montent plus "Jers leur source, nous nous rendons rapidement
dans r abîme de P éternité, ou engloutis pour toujours, nous nç
revenons plus sur nos pas reparoitre encore sur la terre» (Mort
du Pécheur.)
ADVERTISEMENT.
IX
Youth glides away ; years
hurry on ; and like water, says
the scripture, sfiilt upon the
ground ivkich cannot be gather-
ed up. again, we rapidly course
towards the abyss of eternity,
where for ever swallowed up,
we can never return upon our
stepSy to appear once more upon
the earth.
Youth glides away ; years
hurry on ; and like sireams,
says the scripture, which roll
their waters to the ocean, and
return no more to their source^
we are rapidly urged to the
abyss of eternity, where for ever
swallowed up, we can no more
appear upon earth.
En Jin, séparation de toutes les créatures. Tout est anéanti
autour de lui : il tend les mains à tous les objets que V environ-
nent comme pour s'^y prendre encore; et il ne saisit que des
fantômes^ quhine fumée qui se dissipe, et qui ne laisse rien de
réel dans ses mains. (Mort du Pécheur.)
(Omitted altogether in the
English edition.)
To conclude, a separation
from all created beings. Every
thing is annihilated around him ;
he stretches out his hands, as if
to take a last grasp of the objects
which environ him, and he seizes
nothing but fleeting shades
which escape from his hands.
Une naissance de passion trop foiblement rejetée ; une occa-
sion de périls trop fréquenté e.^ ^c. {Sur la tiédeur.)
A birth of passion too feebly
rejected ; an occasion of danger
too much frequented.
The growth of passion too fee-
bly checked J occasions of dan-
ger too little avoided.
Et quails se croient heureux quand il leur reste un moment
pour être à eux-mêmes, et jouir d'^un loisir que la situation de
leur fortune leur refuse. (Sur P emploi du temps.)
And that they think them-
selves happy, v/hen they can
accomplish a moment for them-
selves, and enjoy at leisure, the
situation of their fortune denies
to them.
And that they think them-
selves happy when they can ob-
tain a moment for themselves,
and enjoy that leisure the situ-
ation of their fortune denies
them.
II ne Skagit pas ici pour que la mort vous surprenne, que la
foudre tombe sur vous, que vous soyez ensevelis sous les ruines
de vos palais ; ^c. (Sur la mo7-t.)
In order to be surprised by
death, the question at present is
not, that the thunder ahonld fall
UDon your heads. &c,
' Vol. L
When I speak of your being
surprised by death, I da nor,
mean that the thunder, &c»
ADVERTISEMENT.
Le temps et la seule i?ico?istance du cœur ont rompu vos
liens: Cependant dégoûté des créatures^ vous n'en êtes pas
plus vif pour votre Dieu. {Le petit nombre des élus.)
Time and the natural incon-
stancy of the heart will bring
these about ; yet nevertheless
though detached from sin by in-
capabilitij you are no nearer
your God.
Time and the natural incon-
stancy of the heart will se-
ver these bonds ; nevertheless,
though disgusted with creation,
you arc no nearer your God.
Les traits de la médisance. (Sur la 7nedisance.)
The traits of slander. | The shafts of slander.
Vous alliez lancer les traits venimeux du serpent contre
ceux^ £sPc. (Sur la médisance.)
To dart the venemous sting
of the serpent against those,
whom, &c.
To go and sfiit out the vene-
mous traits of the serpent a-
gainst those, whom, Sec.
Si en naissant nous portions écrit sur notre front .^ le nombre
de nos années et le jour fatal qui les verra finir .^ ce point
de vue fxe et certain^ £s?c. {Sur la mort.)
At our birth nioere our por-
tions nvritten on our foreheads;
the number of our years and
the fatal day which shall termi-
nate them, that fixed and cer-
tain object would, &c.
At our birth did ive bear in-
scribed on our foreheads the
number of our years and the
fjital day which shall terminate
them ; that fixed and certain
object, &c.
^mnd il n'y auroit pas plus de craindre que d'^esperer
(Sur la fausse confance.)
Were there no other reason
to be afraid than that of howling.
Were there no more rcasori
to fear than to hope.
Les premiers ho7n7nes, avant qu^un culte impie se fût
taillé des divinités de bois et de pierre^ adorèrent le même
Dieu que nous adorons.^ ^c. {La vérité de la religion.)
The first men, before an im-
The first men, before that
an impious worship rjas carved
tout q/ divinities of wood and of
stone, nvorshipped the same God
whom w^e adore, Sec.
pious worship had carved its
(i\\\\i\\\\Q%out of wood and stojic^
adored the same God whom we
adore, &c.
Des personnes même dans une sexe oh Vignoraiice sur cer-
tains points devroit être un mérite^ ou la politesse et la bien-
ADVERTISEMENT,
2^1
seance du moins voudroient qu^ en sachant on affectât d^igno-
rer^ £s?c. {La verite de la religion.)
Individuals^ even of a sex
in which ignorance on certain
points would be meritorious, cr
from ivhom good breeding and
politeness require at least an
affectation of ignorance, 8cc.
Even persons of a sect-, in
whom ignorance on certain
points would be meritorious and
'who though knoiving good breed-
ing a7id decency require that
they should affect to be igno-
rant. Sec.
3Iais elle (la loi de Dieu) est encore Immuable dans toutes les
situations de la vie ; et il n'est ni conjoncture difficile^ ni per-
plexité., ni péril apparent^ ni prétexte du bien public^ ou la vio-
ler et même Vadoucir^ devienne un temperament legitime et
nécessaire : (Sur Pimmutabilité de la Loi.)
But it is likewise immutable
in all the situations of life ; and
it is neither a difficult conjunc-
ture, nor perplexity, nor appa-
rent danger, nor pretext of pub-
lic good, in ivhich to violate or
even to soften it^ becomes a le-
gitimate and necessary modif-
cation.
But it is likewise immutable
in all the situations of life ; and
neither difficult conjunctures
nor perplexities, nor apparent
dangers nor pretexts of public
good, ca7i ever become a legiti-
mate cause of its violation cr
even its mitigation.
Enfin^je ne vous dis pas que V Evangile ne vous ayant été
donné que pour nous détacher du monde et de nous-mêmes., et
nous faire mourir à toutes nos affections terrestres^ c^est
s'^abuser de regarder^ commes des i?îco?ivéniens^ certaines
suites de cette loi divine^ funestes ou à notre gloire ou à notre
repos ^ et de nous persuader qu\dors il nous est permis de re-
courir à des expédiens qui V adoucissent et qui en concilient la
sévérité avec les intérêts de notre amour-propre. Jésus
Christ n^a pas prétendu 7ious prescrire des devoirs faciles •>
commodes., Qc. (Sur P immutabilité de la Loi.)
Lastly, I do not tell you that
the gospel having been only
given to us in order to detach
lis from the world and from our-
selves, and to make us die to
all our terrestrial affections, it
is deceiving ourselves to con-
sider as inconveniences certain
consequences of that divine law
fatal either to our fortune, to
our glory, or to our ease, and
to persuade ourselves that it is
Lastly, I 7night tell you that
the gospel having only been
given to us in order to detach
us from the world and from
ourselves, and to make us dead
to all our terrestrial affections,
we deceive ourselves ivhen we
consider as inconveniences cer-
tain consequences of that divine
law fatal either to our fortune,
to our glory, or to our ease, and
-,vhen Nve persuade ourselves
Xll
ADVERTISEMENT.
then permitted to us to have
recourse to expedients which
viollify it and conciliate its se-
verity with the interests of our
self-love. Jesus Christ hath
never meant to prescribe to us
easy and commodious duties, See.
that it is then permitted us to
have recourse to expedients
which soften it and reconcile its
severity with the interests of
our self-love. Jesus Christ
never meant to prescribe to us
easy and convenient duties.
We shall conclude with an extract from the celebrated
Sermon delivered in the presence of Louis XIV.,
and a specimen of the manner in which it is translated
by the Scottish editor.
SIRE,
Si le monde parlait ici à la place de Jésus Christ^
sans doute il ne tiendrait pas à votre majesté le méine langage.
Heureux le prince^ vous dir oit-il^ qui n^ijainais combattu que
pour vaincre ; qui n'a vu tant de Puissances armées contre lui,
que pour leur donner une paix plus glorieuse ; et qui a toii-
jours été plus grand ou que le peril ou que la victoire. Heu-
reux le Prince qui, durant le cours d''un règne long et jîoris-
sant^jouit à loisir des fruits de sa gloire, de Vamour de ses
peuples, de Pestime de ses enne7nis, de Padmiration de Puni'
vers, de P avantage de ses conquêtes, de la magnificence de ses
ouvrages, de la sagesse de ses lois, de P espérance auguste
dhuie nombreuse postérité ; et qui n^ a plus rien à désirer que
de conserver long temps ce qu'ail possède.
Ainsi parlerait le monde. Mais, Sire, Jésus Christ ne parle
pas comme le monde.
Heureux, vous dit-il, non celui qui fait P admiration de son
siècle, mais celui qui fait sa principale occupation du siècle à
venir, et que vit dans le mépris de soi-même, de tout ce que pas-
se ; parce que le royaume du ciel est à lui.
Heureux non celui, ^c.
SIRE,
If the world were to speak to you in the place of Je-
sus Christ, it undoubtedly 'ivould not nay, " Blessed are they
who 7noiirn.**
Happy, would it say, the prince who has never fought but to
1 onqucr, and whoi>c mind has always been superior cither to the
danger or to the victory : who during the course of a long and
prosperous reign, has erjoyrd., and still continues to enjoy, at his
<asr, tlie fruits of his glory, the love of his people, the esteem of
itis enemiesj the advantaçce of bis conaucçts, the sfilmdonr of his
ADVERTISEMENT. Xlll
^ctionsy the wisdom of his laws, and the august prospect of a
numerous posterity; and who has nothing left now to desire but
the continuance of what he possesses.
In this manner would the world speak, but, Sire, Jesus Christ
does not speak like the world.
Happy, says he to you^not him^ who is the admiration of his age;
but he ivho makes his study of the age to come, and lives in
the contemfit of himself and of all the things of the earth ; for
tù Jùvi is the kingdom of heaven. Not him who, Sec.
LIFE OF MASSILLON.
(Extracted from the Discourse of Monsieur Le Mar-
quis D^Ale?nbert, on his admission into the Royal
Academy of Paris* J
JEAN BAPTISTE MASSILLON was bom in
Provence in the year 1663. His father was a poor at-
torney of that inconsiderable place. The obscurity of
his birth, which gives so much lustre to the splendour
of his personal merit, should make a chief feature in his
panegyric ; and it may be said of him, as was said of
that illustrious Roman, who owed nothing to his ances-
tors, Videtur ex se natus : He seemed to have produced
himself.
He entered the Oratory at seventeen : The superiors
of Massillon soon saw the fame which he would bring
to their congregation. They destined him to the pul-
pit ; but, it was from a principle of obedience alone,
that he consented to second their views : He was the
only one who did not foresee that future celebrity, by
which his humility and his modesty were to be re-
warded.
The young Massillon did every thing in his power to
avoid that fame. He had already, while in the coun-
try, by order of his superiors, pronounced the funeral
orations of two Archbishops. These discourses, which
were in reality no more than the attempts of a youth,
but of a youth who shewed what he would one day be,
had the most brilliant success. The humble orator,
alarmed at his growing reputation, and dreading, as he
said, the daemon of pride, resolved to escape him for
ever, by secluding himself in the most obscure retreat.
He repaired to the Abbey of Septfons, where the same
XVI LIFE OF MASSILLON.
discipline is observed as at La Trappe; and there he
took the habit.
During his noviciate, the Cardinal de Noailles ad-
dressed to the Abbe of Septfons, whose virtue he res-
pected, a charge which he had just pubUshed. The
Abbe, more rehgious than eloquent, but preserving still
at least for those of his communion some remains of
self-love, wished to return an answer to the Cardinal,
worthy of the charge he had received. This office he
entrusted to Massillon, who performed it with as much
readiness as success. The Cardinal^ astonished at re-
ceiving from that quarter a piece so well written, was
not afraid of wounding the vanity of the Abbe of Sept-
fons, by asking, who was the author of it ; when, on
the Abbess mentioning Massillon, the prelate immedi-
ately replied, that such talents were not, in the language
of Scripture, to remain hid under a bushel. He obliged
the novice to quit the habit, and resume that of the Ora-
tory. He placed him in the seminary of St. Magloire
in Paris, exhorting him to cultivate the eloquence of the
pulpit, and promising to make his fortune, which the
young orator confined to that of an apostle, that is, to
the mere necessaries of life, accompanied with the most
exemplary simplicity.
His first Sermons produced the efiect which his su-
periors, and the Cardinal de Noailles, had foreseen.
Scarcely had he shewn himself in the churches in Paris,
when he eclipsed almost all those who had shone in the
same sphere. He had declared that he would not preach
like them ; not from any presumptuous sentiment of su-
periority, but from the just and rational idea he had
formed of Christian eloquence. He was persuaded, that
if a minister of the gospel degrades himself by circula-
ting known truths in vulgar language, he fails, on the
other hand, in thinking to reclauTi, by profound argu-
mentation, a multitude of hearers, who are by no means
able to comprehend him ; that though all who hear him
may not have the advantage of education, yét all of them
have a heart, at which the preacher should aim ; that in
tl^ie pulpit, man should be exhibited to himself, not to
frighten him by the horror of the picture, but to afflict
LIFE OF MASSILLON. XVll
him by its resemblance ; and that if it is sometimes use-
ful to' terrify and alarm him, it is oftener profitable to
draw forth those extatic tears that are more efficacious
than those of despair.
Such was the plan that Massillon proposed to follow,
and which he executed like a man who had conceived
it, that is, like a man of genius. He excels in that pror
perty of an orator, which can alone supply all the rest ;
in that eloquence, which goes directly to the soul ; which
agitates, without convulsing ; which alarms, without ap-
palling ; which penetrates, without rending the heart.
He searches out those hidden folds, in which the pas-
sions lie enveloped ; those secret sophisms, which blind
and seduce. To combat and to destroy these sophisms,
he has in general only to unfold them : This he does
with an unction so affectionate and so tender, tliat he al-
lures us, rather than compels ; and even when he shews
us the picture of our vices, he interests and delights us
the most. His diction, always smooth and elegant, and pare,
is every where marked with that noble" simplicity, with-
out which, there is neither good taste nor true eloquence ;
a simplicity, which being united, in Massillon, with the
sweetest and most bewitching harmony, borrowed from
this latter additional graces ; but what completes the
charm of this enchanting style, is our conviction that so
many beauties spring from an exuberant source, and are
produced without efibrt or pain. It som.etimes happens,
mdeed, that a few ijiaccuracies escape him, either in the
expression, in the term of the phrase, or in the affecting
melody of his style ; such inaccuracies, however, may
be called happy ones, for they completely prevent us
from suspecting the least degree of labour in his com-
position. It was by this happy negligence that Massil-
lon gained as many friends as auditors : He knew, that
the more an orator is intent upon gaining admiration, the
less those who hear him are disposed to grant it; and
that this ambition is the rock on which" so many preach-
ers have split, who being entrusted, if one may dare
thus to express it, with the interests of the Deity, wish
to mingle with them the insignificant interests of their
own vanity. He compared the studied eloquence of
Vol. L c
Xviii LIFE OF MASSILLON.
learned preachers to those flowers which grow so iuxu-
riaatly amongst the corn, that are lovely to the view,
but noxious to the corn.
Massillon reaped another advantage from that heart-
affecting eloquence which he made so happy a use of.
As he spoke the language of all conditions, because he
spoke to the heart, all descriptions of men flocked to
his sermons ; even unbelievers were eager to hear him ;
they often found instruction, when they expected only
amusement, and returned sometimes converted, when
they thought they were only bestowing or with-holding
their praise. Massillon could descend to the language,
which alone they would listen to, that of a philosophy,
apparently human, but which, fmding every avenue to
the heart laid open, allowed the orator to approach with-
out effort and assistance, and made him conqueror, even
before lie had engaged.
His action perfectly corresponded with the kind of
eloquence he had cultivated. The moment he entered
the pulpit, he seemed deeply impressed with the great
truths he W1ÎS about to declare; with- eyes cast down, a
modest and collected air, without any violent motions,
Mdth few or no gestures, but animating all by an affect-
ing and impressive voice, he communicated to his hear-
ers the religious sentiment which his external appearance
announced : he commanded that profound silence, which
is a higher compliment to eloquence, than the most tu-
multuous plaudits. He appeared on that great and dan-
gerous theatre, equally devoid of pride as of fear : His
first attempt was uncommonly brilliant, and the exor-
dium of his first discourse is one of the master-pieces
of modern eloquence. Lewis XIV. was then in the ze-
nith of his power and glory ; he had been victorious in
every part of Europe ; he was adored by his subjects,
intoxicated with fame, and surfeited with adulation. Mas-
sillon chose for his text that passage of Scripture which
seemed the least adapted to such a prince, " Blessed
**are they who weep;'' and from that text he conveyed
a compliment the more new, and artful, and flatter-
ing, as it appeared to be dictated by the gospel itself,
and such as an apostle might have paid. " Sire," said
LIFE OF MASSILLON. XIX
he, addressing the king, " if the world were to speak to
" your Majesty from this place, it would not say, Bless-
** ed are they who weep. Happy, \v ould it say, that
"prince who has never fought but to conquer; who
** hath filled the universe w^ith his fame ; who, in the
" course of a long and prosperous reign, has enjoyed all
" that men admire, the splendour of conquest, the love
" of his people, the esteem of his enemies, the wisdom
" of his laws. But, Sire, the gospel does not speak the
" laHguage of the world." The audience of Versailles,
accustomed as it was to Bourdalous and Bossuets, had
never witnessed an eloquence at once so delicate and
noble ; and accordingly, it excited in the congregation
an involuntary movement of admiration.
Our orator was always firm, but always respectful,
while he announced to his sovereign the will of Him
who is the Judge of Kings ; he fulfilled the duty of the
ministry, but he never exceeded it ; and the Monarch,
who perhaps retired from his chapel dissatisfied with
some other preachers, never left the sermons of Massil-
lon without being dissatisfied with himself. This the
Prince was honest enough to confess to Massillon ; the
greatest compliment he could pay him, but a compli-
ment which many others before and after Massillon ne-
ver wished to obtain, being more anxious to send away^
a hearer enraptured, than a sinner converted.
Lewis XIV. died ; and the Regent, who honoured
the talents of Massillon, and despised his enemies,
named him to the bishopric of Clermont ; he wanted,
moreover, that the court should hear him once more,
and engaged him to preach some Lent sermons before
the King, then of the age of nine years.
These sermons, composed in less than three months,
are known by the name of Petite Carême. Though
they are not in the highest degree finished, they are a
true model of pulpit-eloquence. The great sermons of
the same author may possess more pathos and vehe»
mence ; but the eloquence of these is more insinuating
and delicate, and the charm resulting from them is en-
hanced by the importance of the subject, by the inesti-
mable value of those simple afîccting lessons, which,
XX LIFE OF MASSILLON.
being fitted to penetrate, as agreeably as forcibly, the
heart of the young Monarch, seem calculated to procure
the happiness of millions, by acquainting the prince with
what was expected of him.
The same year in which these discourses were pro-
nounced, Massillon was admitted into the French Aca-
demy. Massillon had just been made a bishop ; but no ,
place at Court, no business, no pretence of any knid,
could detain him at a distance from his flock. He de-
parted for Clermont, whence he never returned, but on
account of indispensable occasions, and consequently very
rarely. He gave all his attention to the happy people
whom Providence had confided to his care. He bene-
volently dedicated to the instruction of the poor those
same talents, so much esteemed by the great of the world ;
and preferred to the loud applauses of the courtier, the
simple and earnest attention of an auditory, less brilliant,
but more teachable. Perhaps the most eloquent of his
sermons are the conferences he held with his curates.
He preached to them the virtues of which he set an exam-
ple, disinterestedness, simplicity, forgetfulness of himself,
the active and prudent earnestness of an enlightened con-
viction, very different from that fanaticism which proves
nothing but the blindness of zeal, and which makes the
sincerity of it very doubtful. A wise moderation was
indeed his predominant character.
Deeply impressed with a sense of the true duties of
his station, Massillon fulfilled the principal function of a
bishop, that which attracts love and respect from incre-
dulity itself, the delightful exercise of humanity and
benevolence. He sent, in the space of two years, twenty
thousand livres to the Hotel-Dieu at Clermont. His
whole revenue was at the service of the poor* After
a lapse of thirty years, his diocess retain the remem-
brance of his benefits, and his memory is still honoured
by the most eloquent of all funeral orations, the tears of
an hundred thousand people whom his bounty made
happy.
This funeral oration he enjoyed in his life-time.
VVhene\'er he appeared in the streets of Clermont, the
people prostrateii themselves before him, calling him fa-
LIFE OF MASSILLON. X^i
ther, and invoking blessings on his head. Among the
immense alms which he bestowed, there were some acts
of charity which he carefully concealed, not only to spare
the delicacy of unhappy individuals who received them,
but to relieve whole communities from feelings of in-
quietude, and the fears with which such alms might
inspire them.
Not only was he liberal of his fortune to the indigent,
but he employed for them besides, with as much zeal
as success, both his interest and his pen. Being a wit-
ness, in his diocesian visitations, of the misery under
which the inhabitants of the country groaned, and his
revenue not being sufficient to give bread to such a mul-
titude of indigent creatures that implored it of him, he
wrote to the court in their favour, and, by the energetic
and affecting picture which he drew of their necessities,
he obtained either actual contributions for them, or a
considerable abatement of their taxes. I am assured
that his letters on this subject are master-pieces of elo-
quence and pathos, superior even to the most affecting
of his sermons ; and what emotions, indeed, must not
the spectacle of human nature, suffering and oppressed,
have excited in the virtuous and compassionate soul of
Massillon !
He died, as Fenelon died, and as every bishop ought
to die, without wealth, and without debt. It was on the
28th September, 1742, that the church and eloquence,
and humanity, suffered this irreparable loss.
A circumstance which happened not long ago, calcu-
lated to affect every heart of sensibility, proves how dear
the memory of Massillon is, not only to the poor whose
tears he had wiped away, but to all who knew him.
Some years ago, a traveller passing through Clermont
wished to see the country-house in which the prelate
used to spend the greatest part of the year, and for this
purpose he applied to an old vicar, who, since the death
of the bishop, had never ventured to return to that
country-house, where he who had inhabited it was no
longer to be found. He consented, however, to gratify
the desire of the traveller, notwithstanding the profound
grief he expected to suffer, iri revisiting a place so dear-
XXI LIFE OF MASSILLON,
to his remembrance. They accordingly set out toge^
ther, and the vicar pointed out every particular place to
the stranger. " There," said he, with tears in his eyes,
" is the alley in which the excellent prelate used to walk
** with us — there is the arbour in which he used to sit
" and read — this is the garden he took pleasure in cul-
'^ tivating with his own hands." Then they entered the
house ; and when they came to the room where Massil-
lon died, " this," said the vicar, " is the place where we
^* lost him:" and as he pronounced these words, he
fainted. The ashes of Titus, or of Marcus Aurelius,
might have envied such a tribute of regard and affection.
CONTENTS
OF
THE FIRST VOLUME.
SERMON. PAO^.:
I, On Salvation^ ..... 1
II. Oîi the small number of the Electa • . 48
III. On the disgusts accompanying virtue, . 78
IV. On the uncertainty of righteousness in a state
oflukewarmness^ .... 105
V. 0?! the certainty of the loss of righteousness
in a state of lukewarmness, • .131
VI. On Evil Speaking, .... 163
VII. On the Employment of Time y . .196
VIII. Certainty of a Future State, . . . 224
IX. On Death, 253
X. On the Death of the Sinner, and of the
Righteous, . . , . .281
XL On Charity, 316
XII. On Afflictions, 35Z
XIII. On Prayer, . . . . . , 383
XIV. Forgiveness of Injuries, . . .411
XV. The Woman who was a Sinner^ . . 443
XVI. The ÏVord of God, .... 478
( 17 )
SERMON I.
ON SALTATION.
JOHN vii. 6.
My time is not yet come ; hut your time is always ready.
The reproach which is here directed by Jesus Christ,
against his relations according to the flesh, who pressed
bim to show himself to the world, and to go up to Jeru-
salem, in order to acquire those honours which w ere due
to his great talents, may be applied with propriety to the
greatest part of this audience. The time which they give
to their fortune, to their advancement, to their pleasures,
is always ready ; there is always time for the acquirement
of wealth and glory, and to satisfy their passions ; — that
is the time of man: but the time of Jesus Christ, that is
to say, the time of working out their salvation, is never
ready ; they delay, they put it off; they always expect it^
arrival, and it never arrives.
Vol.1. i
18 SERMOJ^ 1.
The slightest worldly interests agitate them, and make
them undertake every thing; for what is the world itself,
whose deceitful ways they follow, but a scene of constant
agitation, where the passions set every thing in motion ;
where tranquility is the only pleasure unknown ; where
cares are honourable ; where those who are at rest think
themselves unhappy ; where all is toil and affliction of
spirit ; in a word, where all are in motion, and all are de-
ceived ? Surely, my brethren, when we see men so oc-
cupied, so interested, so patient in their pursuits, we
would suppose them labouring for everlasting ages, and
for riches which ought to secure their happines : How
can we comprehend, that so much toil and agitation has
nothing in view, but a fortune whose duration scarcely
equals that of the labours which have gained it ; and that
a life so rapid is spent with such fatigue, in the search of
wealth which must perish with it?
Nevertheless, a mistake, which the slightest investi-
gation is sufficient to expose, has become the error of the
great majority. In vain does religion call us to more ne-
cessary and more important cares ^ in vain it announces
t» us^ that to labour for what must pass away, is only
amassing, at a great expense, heaps of sand, which fall
upon our heads ag fast as we raise them ; that when we
reach the highest point of elevation to which we can at-
tain here below, we are on the eve of death, and at the
gate of eternity ; and that nothing is worthy of man, but
what will endure as long as man. The cares of the pas-
sions are always weighty and important: The steps
which we take for heaven, are weak and languid : It is
only salvation we consider as an amusement : We toil
for frivolous ricbes; as if we laboured for eternal posses-
OA' SALVATIOJW
19
sjions ; we labour for eternal possessions^ as if we toiled
for frivolous riches.
Yes^ my bretln-en^ our cares for this world are always
animated ; obstacles, fatigues^ disapointments, nothing
can repulse us : Our cares for this world are always pru-
dent ; dangers^ snares^ perplexities^ competitions^ nothing
can make us mistake our aim : whereas^ our cares for sal-
vation bear a very different character ; nothing can be
more languid, or less interesting to us, although obsta-
cles and dislike are there so much to be dreaded ; no-
thing can be more inconsiderate, although the multiplici-
ty of ways, and the number of dangers, render mistakes
in it so familiar and common.
Wo. must labour, therefore, towards its accomplish-
ment, with fervour and prudence ; with fervour, in order
not to be repulsed ; with prudence, in order not to be mis-
taken.
Part. I. — Undoubtedly nothing in this life ought to
interest us more than the care of our eternal salvation ;
independent of this being the grand affair upon which
our ALL depends, we even have not, properly speaking,
any other upon the earth ; and the infiiiite and diverse
occupations attached to our places, to our rank, to our
situations in life, ought to be only different modes of la-
bouring towards our salvation.
Nevertheless, this care, so glorious, to which every
thing we do, and whatever we are, relate, is of all others
the most despised ; this chief care, which should be at
the head of all our other pursuits, gives place to them all
in the detail of our actions ; this care, so amiable, and to
whic h the promises of faith, and the consolations of grace,
attarh so much sweetness, is of all others become for us
20 sermojY I.
the most disgusting, and the most melancholy. And, be-
hold, my brethren, whence springs tliis want of fervour
in the business of our eternal salvation ; we pursue it
without esteem, without preference, and without inclina-
tion. Let us investigate and illustrate these ideas.
It is a very deplorable error, that mankind has attach-
ed the most pompous names to all the enterprises of the
passions ; and that the labours of our salvation have not^
in the opinions of men, been capable of meriting the same
honour and the same esteem. Military toils are regard-
ed by us as the path of reputation and glory ; the intrigues
and the commotions which contribute to our advance-
ment in the world, are looked upon as the secrets of a
profound wisdom ; schemes and négociations which arm
mankind against each other, and which frequently make
the ambition of an individual the source of public calam-
ities, pass for extent of genius and superiority of talents;
the art of raising from an obscure patrimony, a monstrous
and overgrown fortune, at the expense often of justice
and probity, is the science of business, and individual
good management. In a word, the world has found out
the secret of setting off by honourable titles, all the cares
which are connected with the things of this earth : The
actions of faith alone, which shall endure eternally,
which shall form the history of the age to come, and
shall be engraven during all eternity upon the immortal
columns of the heavenly Jerusalem, are accounted idle
and obscure occupations, the lot of weak and limited
souls, and have nothing which exalt them in the eyes of
men. Such, my brethren, is the first cause of our indif-
ference towards the business of our salvation : We do
not sufficiently esteem that holy undertaking, to labour
at it with fervour.
O./V SALVATIOX. %i
Now, I do not tliink it necessary to stop here, and
combat an illusion so much at variance with reason. For
Avhat is it ihat can render a work glorious to the person
who undertakes it? Is it the duration and the immortal-
ity which it promises in the memory of man? Alas ! all
the monuments of pride will perish witli the world which
has raised them ; whatever we do for the earth, will ex-
perience the same destiny W'hich it will one day undergo :
Victories and conquests, the most splendid enterprises,
and all the history of the sinners whose names adorn the
present age, will be effaced from the remembrance of
men; the works of the just alone will be immortal, and,
written for ever in the book of life, will survive the entire
ruin of the universe. Is it the recompense which is held
out to us for it ? But whoever is unable to render us hap-
py, is consequently unable to recompense us ; and there
is no other who has that power but God himself. Is it
the dignity of the occupations in which they engage you?
But the most honourable occupatioas of the world are
merely games, on which our error and absurdity have be-
stowed serious and pompous names : Here, on the con-
trary, every thing is great ; we love the Author of our ex-
istence alone; we adore the Sovereign of the universe;
we serve an Almighty Master ; Ave covet only eternal
riches ; we form projects for heaven alone ; v/e labour for
^n immortal crown.
What is there then upon the earth, more glorious or more
worthy of man, than the cares of eternity ? Prosperities
are honourable anxieties ; splendid employments an il-
lustrious servitude; reputation is frequently a public er-
ror; titles and dignities are rarely the fruit of virtue, and,
at the most, serve only to adorn our tombs, and embellish
our ashes ; great talents, if faith does not regulate their
use, are only great temptations ; deep knowledge, a wind
w hich inflates and corrupts, if faith does not correct its
poison ; all these are only grand, by the use which may
be made of them towards salvation : Virtue alone is es-
timable for itself.
Nevertheless, if our competitors are more successful^
and more elevated than we in the world, we view their
situation with envious eyes, and their aggrandisement,
in humbling our pride, re-animates the fervour of our de-
signs, and gives new life to our expectations ; but it hap-
pens sometimes, that the companions of our pleasure»
change suddenly into new men, nobly break all the
shameful bonds of the passions, and, borne upon the
wrings of grace, enter, in our sight, into the path of salva-
tion, whilst they leave us behind them, to wander still
at tlie pleasure of our illicit desires. We view with a
tranquil eye the prodigy of their change ; and their lot,
far from exciting our envy, and awaking in us any w eak
desires of salvation, only induces us, perhaps, to think
of filling up the void which their retreat has made in the
world, of elevating ourselves to those dangerous posts
from which they have just descended through motives of
religion and faith : What shall I say ? We become, per-
haps, tlie censurers of their virtues : We seek elsewhere
than in the infinite treasures of grace, the secret motives
of their change ; to the work of God we give views en-
tirely worldly ; and our deplorable censures become the
most dangerous trials of their repentance. It is thus, O
my God! that tliou sheddcst avenging darkness over in-
iquitous passions ! Wliencc comes this ? We want es-
teem for the holy uurlevtaking of salvation : This is the
first cause of our indifference.
O.V SALYATIÔ^'. 33
In the second place. We labour in it with indolence,
because we do not make a principal object of its attain-
ment, and because w^e never give a preference to it over
our other pursuits. In truth my brethren, we all wish
to be saved ; the most deplorable sinners do not renounce
this hope ; w^e even wish, that amongst our actions there
may always be found some which relate to our salvation ;
for none deceive themselves so far as to believe, that they
shall be entitled to the glory of the holy, wdthout having
ever made a single exertion towards rendering themselves
worthy of it ; but the point in which we commonly deceive
ourselves is, the rank which we give to those w'orks, a-
midst the other occupations which divide our life.
The trifles, the attentions which we lavish so profusely
in our intercourse with society, the duties of an office, do-
mestic arrangements, passions and pleasures, have their
times and their moments marked in our days. Where
do we place the work of salvation ? What rank do we
give to this special care, above our other cares ? Do wc
even make a business of il? And, to enter into the parti-
culars of your conduct. What do you perform for eter-
nity, which you do not for the world an hundred-fold ?
You sometimes employ a small portion of your wealth in
religious charities; but what are these when compared to
the sums which you sacrifice every day to your pleasures,
to your passions, and to your caprices? In the morning
you, perhaps, elevate your mind to the Lord in prayer ;
bnt does not the world, in a moment, resume its place in
your heart, and is not the remainder of the day devoted
to it ? You regularly attend, perhaps, in order to fulfil
the external duties of religion ; but, without entering into
the motives which frequeutly carry you there^ tliis indi-
S4i s EU MO. Y 1.
vidual exercise of religion^ is it not done away by devo-
ting the remainder of the day to indolent and worldly
pursuits? You sometimes cciTect your inclinations; you
perhaps l)ear with an injury; you undertake the dischargft
of some pious obligation ; but these are individual and in-
sulated exertions, out of the common track, and which
are ne\er followed by any regular cousequences ; you
will be una])le to produce, l^efore the Lord, a single in-
stance of these in your favour, without the enemy having
it at the same time in his power to reckon a thousand a-
gainst you ; salvation occupies your intervals alone; the
world has, as I may say, the foundation and the princi-
pal : riie moments are for God, our entire life is for our-
selves.
I know, my brethren, that with regard to this, you feel
sensibly the injustice and the danger of your own con-
duct. You confess, that the agitations of the world, of
business, and of pleasures, almost entirely occupy you;
and that a very little time, indeed, remains for you to re-
flect upon salvation : But, in order to tranquillize your-
selves, you say, that some future day, when you shall be
more at ease ; when aftairs of a certain nature shall be
terminated ; when particular embarrassments shall be at
an end ; and, in a word, when certain circumstances shall
no longer exist, you will then think seriously upon your
salvation, and the business of eternity will then become
your principal occupation: But, alas! what has deceived
you is this, that you regard salvation as incompatible
with tlie occupations attached to the station in which
Providence has placed you. For, cannot you employ
that station as the means of your sanctification ? Can you
not exercise iu it all the Christian virtues ? Penitence,
0^' SALVATIOJ^\ â5
should these occupations be painful and distressing —
Clemency, pity, justice, if they establish you in authority
over your fellow creatures — Submission to the will of
Heaven, if the success does not correspond sometimes
with your expectations — A generous forgiveness of in-
juries, if you suffer oppression or calumny in that sta-
tion— Confidence in God alone, if in it you experience
the injustice or the inconstancy of your superiors ? Do
not many individuals of your rank and station, in the
same predicament with yourselves, lead a pure and Chris-
tian life? You know well, that God is to be found every
where ; for, in those happy moments when you have
sometimes been touched with grace, is it not true, that
every thing recalled you to God ? That even the dan-
gers of your station became the vehicles of instruction^
and means of cure for you ? that the world disgusted you
even with the world ? that you found continually and ev-
ery where, the opportunity of offering up a thousand in-
visible sacrifices to the Almighty, and of making your
most hurried and tumultuous occupations the sources of
holy reHection, or of salutary example? Why do you not
cultivate these impressions of grace and salvation ? It is
not your situation in life, it is your infidelity and weak-
ness, which have extinguished them in your heart.
Joseph was charged with the management of a great
kingdom; he alone supported the whole weight of the
government ; nevertheless, did he forget the Lord, who
had broken asunder his chains, and justified his inno-
cence ? Or, in order to serve the God of his fathers, did
he delay till a successor should come and restore that
tranquility to him of which his new dignities had neces-
sarily deprived him ? On the contrary, he knew how to
Yol. I. %
g(5 sEHMOjsr r
render serviceable towards the consolation of his breth-
ren, and the happiness of the people of God, a prosperity
which he acknowledged to hold only of His Almighty
hand. That officer of the Queen of Ethiopia, who is
mentioned in the Acts of the Apostles, had the sole gov-
ernment of her immense riches ; the distribution of trib-
utes and subsidies, and the administration of all the pub-
lic revenues, were entrusted to his fidelity ; now, this abyss
of cares and embarrassments did not deprive him of leis-
ure to seek, in the prophecies of Isaiah, the salvation he
expected, and the words of eternal life. Place yourselves
in the most agitated stations, you will find examples of
upright souls, who in them have wrought their sanctifi-
cation : The Court may become the asylum of virtue, as
well as the cloister ; places and employments may be
the aids, as well as the quicksands of piety ; and when,
in order to return to God, we delay till a change of station
shall take place, it is a sure proof that we do not as yet
wish to change our heart. Besides, when we say that
salvation ought to be your sole employment, we do not
pretend that you should renounce all other pursuits ; for
you would then depart from the order of God ; we only
wish you to connect them with your salvation : that piety
may sanctify your occupations ; that faith may regulate
them ; that religion ma^^ animate them ; that the fear of
the Lord may moderate them : In a word, that salvation
may be as the centre to which they all tend. For, to wait
till you shall be in a more tranquil situation, and more
free from worldly perplexities, is not only an illusion
which Satan employs to delay your repentance, but it is
also an outrage upon the religion of Jesus Christ ; you
thereby justify t!ie reproaches formerly made against it
OjY SALVAT10M\ <^
by the enemies of the Christians ; it would seem that you
look upon it as incompatible with the duties of prince^
courtier, publick cliaracter, and father of a family ; like
them, you seem to believe, that the gospel proposes only
maxims unfortunate and inimical to society ; and that^
were it believed and strictly observed, it would be neces-
sary to quit all ; to exclude ourselves from the world ; to
renounce all public concerns ; to break all the ties of du-
ty, of humanity, of authority, which unite us to the rest
of mankind; and to live as if we were alone upon the
earth ; in place of whicJi, it is the gospel alone which
makes us fulfil all these duties as they ought to be fulfil-
led ; it is the religion of Jesus Christ which can alone
form pious princes, incorruptible magistrates, mild and
gentle masters, and faithful subjects ; and maintain, in a
just harmony, that variety of stations and conditions, up-
«n which depend the peace and tranquillity of the people,
xnd the safety of empires.
But, in order to impress more sensibly upon you the
illusion of this pretext; when you shall be free from em-
barrassment, and disengaged from those external cares
which at present detach your thoughts from salvation,
will your heart be free from passions ? Will those iniqui-
tous and invisible bonds which now stop you, be broken
asunder ? Will you be restored to yourselves ? Will you
be more humble, more patient, more moderate, more vir-
tuous, more mortified ? Alas ! It is not external agita-
tion which checks you, it is the disorder within ; it is the
tumultuous ardour of the passions : it is not from the
cares of fortune, and the embarrassments of events and
business, says the holy Chrysostom, that confusion and
trouble proceed ; it is from the irregular desires ef the
soul; a licart in which God reigns is tranquil everv
where. Your cares for the world arc only incompatible
w ith salvation, because the affections which attach you
to it are criminal. It is not your stations^ but your in-
clinations, wiiich ])ccome quicksands for you : now, from
these inclinations you will never be able to free your-
selves with the same facility as from your cares and em-
barrassments ; they will afterwards be even more lively,
more unconquerable than ever : Besides this fund of
weakness which they draw from your corruption^ they
will have that force and strength acquired by habit
through time and years. You think, that in attaining
rest, every thing will be accomplished ; and you will
feel, that your passions, more lively in proportion as they
no longer find external resources to employ them, wil
turn all their violence against yourselves ; and you wit
then be surprised to find, in your own hearts, the same
obstacles which you now believe to be only in what sur-
rounds you. This leprosy, if 1 may venture so to speak^
is not attached to your clothes, to your duties, to the
walls of your palaces, so that, by quitting them, you may
rid yourselves of it ; it has gained root in your flesh ; it
is not by renouncing your cares, therefore, that you must
labour towards your cure ; it is by purifying yourselves
that you must sanctify your occupations, iiivery thing
is pure to those who are pure : otherwise your wound
w ill follow you, even into the leisure of your solitude ;
like that king of Judea mentioned in the book of Kings,
who in vain abdicated his throne, delivered up all the
insignia, as well as the cares of royalty, into the hands
of his son, and withdrew himself into the interiour of his
palace ; he carried with him the leprosy with wliich the
O.Y S.âLl\âTIQ.V. 29
Lord had struck liim, and beheld that shameful disease
pursue him even into his retreat. External cares have
neither innocence^ nor malignity, but in our own hearts :
and it is ourselves alone who render the occupations of
the world dangerous, as it is ourselves alone who render
those of heaven insipid and disgusting.
And, behold, my brethren, the last reason why we sîiow
«0 little fervour and animation in the affair of our eternal
salvation; it is because we fulfil the duties necessary to
accomplish it w ithout pleasure, and, as it were, against
our will. The slightest obligations of piety appear hard
to us ; whatever we do for heaven tires us, exhausts us,
displeases us : Prayer confines our mind too much ; re-
tirement wearies us ; holy reading, from the first, fatigues
the attention ; the conversation of the upright is languid,
and has nothing sprightly or amusing in it; in a word,
we find something, I know not what, of melancholy in
virtue, which occasions us to fulfil its obligations only as
hateful debts, which we always discharge with a bad
grace, and never till we see ourselves forced to it.
But, in i\\(^ first place, my brethren, you are unjust in
attributing to virtue wliat springs from your own corrup-
tion ; it is not piety which is disagreeable, it is your heart
which is disordered : it is not the cup of the Lord w hich
is to be accused of bitterness, says St. Augustin, it is
your own taste which is vitiated. Every thing is bitter
to a diseased palate ; correct your dispositions, and the
yoke will appear light to you ; restore to your heart that
taste of which sin has deprived it, and you will experi-
ence how^ pleasing the Lord is : Hate the world, and you
will comprehend how amiable is virtue. In a word,
Jesus Christ once become the object of your love, yon
^vill then feel the truth of every thing I say.
30 <S E N MO JV J.
Do tlie upright experience that dislike to pious works
Avhich you feel ? Interrogate thein: Ask if they consid-
er your condition as tiie happiest : l^hey will answer,
that in their opinion you appear worthy of compassion ;
that they are feelingly touched to see your errors ; to see
you suiVering every thing for a world which either despi-
ses you, wearies you, or cannot render you happy ; to see
you frequently running after pleasures more insipid to
you than even the virtue from which you fly : They will
tell you, that they would not change their supposed mel-
ancholy for all the felicities of the earth. Prayer consoles
them ; retirement supports them ; holy reading animates
them; works of piety shed a holy unction on their soul ;
and their happiest days are those which they pass with
the Lord. It is the heart which decides our pleasures.
While you continue to love the world, you will find vir-
tue insupportable.
In the second place, If you wish to know why the
yoke of Jesus Christ is so hard and burdensome ; it is
because you carry it too seldom ; you give only a few
rapid moments to the care of your salvation ; certain days
which you consecrate to piety ; certain religious works
of which you sometimes acquit yourselves ; and in ac-
complishing their immedinte discharge, you experience
only the disgusts attending first efforts ; you do not leave
to grace, the time necessary to lighten the w eight ; and
you anticipate the comforts and the consolations which it
never fiiils to shed upon the sequel. Those mysterious
animals wliich the Philislines made choice of to carry
the ark of the Lord beyond tlieir frontiers, eml)lematic
of unbelieving souls little accustomed to bear the yoke
of Jesus Christ, bellowed, says the scripture, and seem-
OJV SJLVAT10J\r. 81
ed to groaa under the grandeur of that sacred weight :
Oil the contrary, the chiklren of Levi, a natural image of
the upright, accustomed to that holy ministry, made the
air resound with songs of mirth and thanksgiving, while
Tarrying it with majesty, even over the burning sands of
the desart. The law is not a burden to the upright soul
accustomed to observe it. It is the worldly soul alone,
little familiarized to the holy rules, that groans under a
weight so pleasing. When Jesus Christ declares that
his yoke is light and easy, he commands us, at the same
time, to bear it every day. The unction is attached to
the habit and usage of it : The arms of Saul were heavy
to David, only because he was not accustomed to them.
We must familiarize ourselves with virtne, in order to be
acquainted with her holy attractions ; the pleasures of
sinners are only superficially agreeable ; the first mo-
ments alone are pleasant ; descend deeper, you find but
gall and bitterness ; and the deeper you go, the more will
you perceive the void, the weariness, and the satiety that
are inseparable from sin. Virtue, on the contrary, is a
hidden manna ; in order to taste all its sweetness, it is ne-
cessary to dig for it ; but the more you advance, the more
do its consolations abound ; in proportion as the passions
are calmed, the path becomes easy ; and the more will
you applaud yourselves for having broken asunder chains
which weighed you down, and which you no longer bore
but with reluctance and secret sorrow.
Thus, while you confine yourselves to simple essays
in virtue, you will taste only the repugnance and the bit-
terness of it ; and, as you will not possess the fidelity of
the good, you can have no right, consequently^ to expect
their consolations.
Sg SEE MO. y 1.
In a word, yuu perform the duties of piety without in-
clination, not only because you do them too seldom, but
because you only, as I may say, half perform them. You
pray, but it is without meditation ; you abstain, perhaps,
from injurini:; your enemy, but it is without loving him as
your brother ; you approacli the holy mysteries, but with-
out bringing tliere that fervour which alone can enable
you to find in them those ineffable comforts which they
communicate to the religious soul ; you sometimes sepa-
rate yourselves from the world, but you carry not with
you into retirement that stillness of the senses and of the
passions, without which it is only a melancholy fatigue.
In a word, you do but half carry the yoke. Now, Jesus
Cinist is not divided : That Simon of Cyrene, w ho bore
only a part of the cross, w as overcome by it, and the
soldiers were under the necessity of using violence to
force iiini to continue this melancholy ofRce to the Sa-
viour of the world. The fulness alone of the law is con-
solatory ; in proportion as you su])tract from it, it be-
comes heavy and irksome ; the more you wisli to soften
it, the more it weighs you down. On the contrary, by
sometimes adding extraneous rigours, you feel the load
diminished, as if you had applied additional softness.
Whence comes this ? It is, that tlie imperfect observaucft
of the law takes its source from a heart which the pas-
sions still share. Now, according to the word of Jesu*
Christ, a heart divided, and which nourishes two loves,
must be a kingdom and a theatre full of trouble and
desolation.
Would you wish a natural image of it, drawn from
the holy scriptures ? liebecca, on the point of her deliv-
ery of Jacob and Esau, suffered the most cruel anguish :
OJ^" SALVATIOjV. g3
The two children struggled within her ; and, as if worn
out by her tortures, she entreated of the Lord, eilher death
or deliverance. Be not surprised, said a voice from hea-
ven to her, if your sufferings are extreme, and that it costs
you 90 much to become a mother; since you carry two na-
tions in your womb. Such is your history, my dear hea-
rers; you are surprised that it costs you so much to ac-
complish a pious work ; to bring forth Jesus Christ, the
new man of your heart. Alas ! the reason is, that you
still preserve there two loves which are irreconcileable;
Jacob and Esau — the love of the world, and the love of
Jesus Christ ; it is because you carry within you two na^
tions, if I may so speak, who make continual war against
each other. If the love of Jesus Christ alone possessed
your heart, all there would be calm and peaceable : but
you still nourish iniquitous passions in it ; you still love
the world, the pleasures and distinctions of fortune ; you
cannot endure those who eclipse you ; your heart is full
of jealousies, of animosities, of frivolous desire», of crim-
inal attachments ; and thence it comes, that your sacri-
fices, like those of Cain, being always imperfect, like his,
are always gloomy and painful.
Serve, then, the Lord with all your heart, and you
will serve Him with pleasure. Give yourself up to Him
without reserve, without retaining the smallest right over
your passions. Observe the righteousness of the law, in
all its fulness, and it will shed holy pleasures through
your heart : For thus saith the prophet, " The statutes
of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart.^' Think not
that the tears of penitence are alw^ays bitter and gloomy.
The mourning is only external j when sincere, they have
a thousand secret recompences. The upright soul resem-
V0I.L 3
blés the sacred bush ; you behold but the prickles and
thorns^ but you see not the glory of the Lord which
dwells withiu it ; you see only fasting and bodily suffer-
ings, but you perceive not the holy unction which sooths
and softens them : you see silence, retirement, flight from
the world and its pleasures, but you behold not the in-
visible Coiiiforter, who replaces, with so much interest^
the society of men, now become insupportable, since ex-
periencing the taste of that of God ; you see a life appa-
rently gloomy and tiresome, but you are incapable of see-
ing the peace and the joy of that innocence which reigns
within. It is there tliat the Father of mercies, and the
God of all consolation, so liberally sheds His favours ;
and that the soul, unable sometimes to support their ful-
ness and excess, is obliged to entreat the Lord to suspend
the torrent of His lîindness, and to measure the abundance
of His gifts, by the weakness of His creature.
Come yourself, my dear hearer, and make an happy
experiment of it ; come, and put the fidelity of your God
to the proof; it is here He wishes to be tried ; come, and
prove whether or not w^e render false testimonies to Hisî
mercies ; if we attract the sinner by false hopes, and if
His e^fts are not still more abundant than our promises.
You ha e long tried the world ; you have found it desti-
tute officiality ; it flattered you with hopes of accomplish-
ing every thing ; pleasures, honours, imaginary happi-
ness ; it has deceived you ; you are unhappy in it ; you
have never been able to attain a situation answerable to
your wishes or expectations ; come, and see if your God
will be more faithful to you ; if only bitterness and dis-
gust are to be found in His service ; if He promises more
than He bestows ; if He is an ungjrateftil, changeable, or
OJ\r SALVATIOJ^. 35
whimsical master ; if His yoke is a cruel servitude, or an
easy freedom ; if the duties which He exacts from us are
the punishment of His slaves, or the consolation of His
children ; and if He deceives those who serve Him. My
God ! liow little wouldst Thou be worthy of our hearts,
wert thou not more amiable, more faithful, and more wor-
thy of being served, than this miserable world 1
But in ordf^r to serve Him as He wishes to be served,
we must make a due estimate of the glory and the hap-
piness of His service ; we must prefer this happiness to all
others, and labour in it with sincerity, without reserve,
and with mature circumspection ; for, if it is a common
fault to want fervour in the business of our eternal sal-
vation, and to become disgusted with it ; it is likewise a
much more general one to fail of prudence, and to mis-
take our path towards it.
Part IT. — An enterprise, where the dangers are dai-
ly, and mistakes common ; where, among so many dif-
ferent routs which appear safe, there is, however, only
one true and unerring, on the choice of which, neverthe-
less, depends our eternal destiny — an enterprise of this
nature surely requires uncommon exertions, and never
had we occasion, in the conduct of any other, for so much
circumspection and prudence. Now, that such is the
enterprise of salvation, it would be needless to waste rime
in proving here, and equally so for you to doubt. The
only object of importance then, to establish, is, the rules
and the marks of this prudence, by which we are to be
guided in so dangerous, and so essential an aflkir.
The first rule is, not to decide by chance amongst thai
multiplicity of ways which mankind pursue ; carefully
to examine all, independent of usages and customs which
36 sermojy 1.
may authorize them ; and hi the affair of our salvation^
to give up nothing to opinion or example. The second
isj when we have finally determined, to leave nothing to
the uncertainty of events, and always to prefer certainty
to risk.
These are the commoQ rules of prudence adopted by
the cliildren of the age, in the pursuit of their pretensions
and their temporal expectations. Eternal salvation is
the only affair in which they are neglected. In the first
place, no person examines if his ways are sure ; nor does
he ever require any other pledge of his safety, than the
crowd which he sees marching before him. Secondly,
In the doubts which spring up during our proceedings^
the party the most dangerous to salvation, having always
self-love in its favour, is always preferred : two impor-
tant and common errors in the affair of eternal salvation,
which it is necessary to combat here. The first rule is,
not to decide by chance, and in the affair of eternity to
give up nothing to opinion, or example. Indeed, the up-
riglit is every where represented to us in the holy wri-
tings, as a judicious and prudent man, who calculates,
who comparée, who examines, who discriminates, who
tries whatever may be the most proper, who does not
lightly believe every fancy, who carries before him the
torch of the law, that his steps may be enlightened, and
that he may not be in danger of mistaking his way. The
sinner, on the contrary, is there held out as a foolish man
who travels by chance, and who, in the most dangerous
passes, advances forward w ith confidence, as if he were
moving in the most straight and certain path.
Now, my brethren, such is the situation of almost all
mon in \he alTair of salvation. In every other matter,
ojsr salvjtiojY. 37
prudentj attentive, distrustful ; quick to discover any er-
rors concealed under the common prejudices ; it is in sal-
vation alone that nothing can equal our credulity and im-
prudence. Yes, my brethren, we tell you every day,
that the life of the world, that is to say, the life of amuse-
ment, of inutility, of vanity, of show, of effeminacy, ex-
empt even from great crimes ; that this life, 1 say, is not
a Christian one, and consequently is a life of reproach
and infidelity : It is the doctrine of that religion in which
you were born ; and since your infancy you have been
nourished in these holy truths. The world, on the con-
trary, affirms this to be the only life which persons of a
certain rank can lead ; that not to conform themselves to
it, would betray a barbarity of manners, in which there
would be more singularity and meanness, than reason
or virtue.
I admit, that for the present it may still be considered
as dubious, whether the world or we have reason on our
side, and that this grand dispute may not yet be decided ;
nevertheless, as a horrible alternative depends upon it,
and as any mistake here is the worst of all evils, it ap-
pears that prudence requires us to clear it up at least,
before we take the final step. It is surely natural to hes-
itate between two contending parties, particularly where
our salvation is the subject of dispute : Now, I ask you,
entering into the world and adopting its manners, its
maxims and its customs, as you have adopted them; have
jou begun by examining whether it had reason on its
side, and if we were wrong and false deceivers? The
world wishes you to aspire to the favours of fortune, and
to neglect neither cares, exertions, meanness, nor artifi-
ces to procure them ; you follow these plans, but have
you examined if the gospel does not forbid tliein ? Tiie
world boasts of luxury, of magnificence, of the delicacie»
of the table ; and iu matters of expense, it deems nothing
excessive but what may tend to derange the circumstan-
ces. Have you informed yourselves, whether the law
of God does not prescribe a mm-e holy use of the riches
which we hold only from Him ? The world authorises
continual pleasures, gaming, theatres ; and treats with
ridicule whoever ventures even to doubt tlieir innocence :
Have you found this decision in the sorrowful and hum-
bling maxims of Jesus Christ ?
The world approves of certain suspicious and odious
ways of increasing the patrimony of our fathers ; and sets
no other bounds to our desires than those of the laws,
which punish violence and manifest injustice. Can you
assure us, that the rules of the conscience do not bind
more closely, and do not enter into discussions, which
the world is totally unacquainted with ? The world has
declared, that a gentle, effeminate, and idle life, is an
innocent one ; and that virtue is not so rigid and austere
as we wish to make it. Before giving credit to tliis,
merely upon the assertion, have you consulted whether
the doctrine brought us by Jesus Clu'ist from heaven,,
sanctions these novel and dangerous maxims ?
What, my brethren! in the affair of y our eternity, with-
out examination or attention, you adopt common prejudi-
ces, merely because they are established ! You blindly fol-
low those who march before you, without examining
where the patli leads to which they keep ! You even deign
not to inquire of yourselves whether or not you are decei-
ved ! You are satisfied in knowing that you are not the on-
ly persons mistaken ! WJiat ! in the business which must
ÔjV SALfATlOjY. 39
decide your eternal destiny, you do not even make use of
your reason ! You require no other pledge of your safe-
ty than the general error! You have no doubt or suspi-
cion ! You think it unnecessary to inform yourselves !
You have no mistrust ! All is good, and, in your opinion,
as it ought to be ! You who are so nice, so difficult, so
mistrustful, so full of precaution when your worldly in-
terests are in question, in this great affair alone, conduct
yourselves by instmct, by fancy, by the impressions of
others ! You decide upon nothing, but indolently allow
yourselves to be dragged away by the multitude, and the
torrent of example! You who, in every other matter^
would blush to think like the crowd ; you, who pique your»
selves upon superiority of genius, and upon leaving to
the common people and to weak minds, all vulgar pre-
judices ; you, who carry to a ridiculous extreme, perhaps,
your singularity on every other point, upon salvation a-
lone you think with the crowd, and it appears as if rea-
son were denied to you on this grand interest alone.
What, my brethren ! When you are asked, in the steps
which you take to ensure success to your worldly expec-
tations, the reasons which have induced you to prefer one
party to another, you advance such solid and prudent mo-
tives; you justify your choice by prospects so certain and
decisive; you appear to have so maturely considered
them before undertaking them ; and when we ask you
whence it comes, that in the affair of your eternal salva-
tion you prefer the abuses, the customs, the maxims of
the world, to the examples of the saints, who certainly
did not live like you ; and to the rules of the gospel^
which condemn all those who live as you do ; you have
Bothing to answer, but that you are not singular, and
4^ fiBJtMU.V I.
that you must live like tlie rest of tlie world. Great God !
to what purpose are great abilities in the management
of projects which will perish with us ! We have the rea-
son of men in support of vanity, and we are children with
re^-ard to the truth. AVe pique ourselves on our wisdom
in the affairs of the world ; and, alas ! in the business of
our eternal salvation, we think it no disgrace to be igno-
rant and foolish.
You will tell us, perhaps, that you are neither wiser,
nor more able than all tlie others who live like you ; that
you cannot enter into discussions which are beyond your
reach ; that were we to be believed, it would be neces-
sary to cavil at every thing ; and that piety does not con-
sist in refining to such an extreme. But I ask you, is so
much subtilty required to know that the world is a de-
ceitful guide ; that its maxims are rejected in the school
of Jesus Christ ; and that its customs can never be alledg^
ed against the law of God ? Is not this the most simple
and the most common rule of the gospel, and the first
truth in the science of salvation ? To know our duty, it
requires only to walk in simplicity of heart. Subtiltics
are only necessary in order to dissemble with ourselves,
and to connect the passions with the holy rules ; there
it is that the human mind has occasion for all its indus-
try, for the task is difficult. Such is exactly your case;
you who pretend, that to trace back customs to the law
is a ridiculous refinement. To know our duty, it only
requires a conference with ourselves. S^ bile Saul con-,
tinned faithful, he had no occasion to consult the sorcer-
ess with regard to what he should do ; the law of God
sufficiently instructed him. It was only after his guilt,
that, in order to calm the inquietudes of a troubled con-
O.V SALVATIOX. 41
science, and to connect his criminal weakness with the
law of God, he bethought himself of seeking, in the an-
swers of a deceitful oracle, some authority favourable to
his passions. Love truth, and you will soon acquire a
knowledge of it. A clear conscience is the best of a]l
instructors.
Not that I wish to blame those sincere researches
which an honest and timid soul makes to enlighten and
instruct itself; I mean only to say, that the greater part
of the doubts with regard to our duties, in those hearts
delivered up like yours to the world, spring from a ru-
ling principle of cupidity, which, on the one side, would
wish no interference with its infamous passions, and, en
the other, would have the authority of the gospel, to pro-
tect it from the remorse which attends a manifest tnins-
gression. For, besides, if you seek the Lord in sincerity^
and your lights are insufficient, there are still prophets
in Israel ; consult betimes, those who preserve the form
of the law and of the holy doctrine, and who teach the
way of God in truth. Do not propose your doubts with
those colourings and softenings which always fix the de-
cision in your favour ; do not apply in order to be de-
ceived, but to be instructed ; seek not favourable, but sure
and enlightened guides ; do not content yourselves even
with the testimony of men ; consult the Lord at different
times^ and through different channels. The voice of
Heaven is uniform, because the voice of truth, of which
it is the interpreter, is the same. If the testimonies do
not accord, prefer always what places you farthest from
danger ; always mistrust the opinion which pleases^ and
which already had the suffrage of your self love.
It rarely happens that the decisions oLour inciin^.tipii.f
VpL L i
4r^ SEJiMO.V 7.
are found the same ^vitli those of the holy rules ; nev-
ertheless, it is that which decides our choice in the
business of salvation. — Second step of our imprudence
in the aifair of our eternal salvation. — In effect^ there
Î8 scarcely a doubt with regard to our duties^ which
conceals from us the precise obligation of the law on
every step. We know the paths by which Jesus Christ
and the saints have passed ; they are still pointed out
to us every day ; we are invited, by the success which
they have had, to walk in their steps. In this manner,
say they to us, with the apostle, did those men of God
who have preceded us overcome the world, and obtain
the performance of the promises. We see, that by imi-
tating them, we may hope for all, and that in the way in
which we walk, every thing is to be dreaded. Ought
we to hesitate on this alternative ? Nevertheless, in every
thing we resist our own lights ; everywhere we prefer
danger to safety ; our whole life is, indeed, one contin-
ued danger ; in all our actions we weaver, not between
the more or less perfect, but between crimes and simple
errors. Every time we act, the question is not whether
we are doing the greatest good, but if we are committing
only a slight fault, worthy of indulgence. All our doubts
are limited to the inquiring of ourselves, if, to a certain
degree, giving up to resentment, if employing a certain
degree of duplicity, if not denying ourselves a certain
gratification, be a crime, or a venial fault ; you always
hang between these two destinies ; and your conscience
can never render you the testimony, that on any occasion
you made clioice of the side in which there was no
danger.
Thus, you k\\>j\v. ih?A a lifo ofpleacinc. of gaouing.
of sliow^ of amusement, when even notliing gross or crim-
inal is mingled with it, is a very doubtful road for eter-
nity ; no saint, at least, lia^ left you such an example.
You are sensible, that more guarded and more Christian
manners would leave you nothing similar to dread ; nev-
ertheless, you love an accommodating doubt better than
an irksome safety ; you know that grace lias moments
which can never be recalled ; that nothing is more uncer-
tain than the return of holy impulses once rejected ; tliat
salvation deferred, almost always fails ; and tliat to be-
gin to-day, is prudently assuring ourselves of success ;
you know it, yet you prefer the uncertain hope of a grace
to come, to the present salvation which offers itself to
you. !Now, my brethren, I only offer to you two reflec-
tions, and I shall finish. In the first place, even in this
path which you tread, should the balance be equal, that
is to say, should it be equally doubtful, whether you are
to be saved or lost, did the smallest portion of Mih re-
main in you, you would be plunged in the most cruel
alarms ; it ought to appear horrible to you, that your
eternal salvation was become a problem, upon which
you knew not how to decide, and upon which, with equal
appearance of truth, you might determine for the happi-
ness or the misery of your everlasting lot, in the same
manner as upon those indifferent questions which God
has yielded up to the controversies of men. You ought
to undertake every thing, and to employ every exertion,
to place appearances at least in your favour, and to find
out a situation where prejudices would be on your side :
And here, where every thing makes against you ; where
the law is unfavourable ; where you have nothing in your
favour bul some fallacious appearances of reason^ upon
•u îiich yoii would nut hazard the smallest of yoiii- tempo
ral interests ; and with habits, which to this period liave
saved none, and in which you only strengthen and com-
fort yourselves by the example of those Aviio perish with
you ; you are tranquil in this path ; you admit and ac-
knowlcdire the wisdom of those who have chosen a more
certain one ; you say that they are praise-w orthy ; that
they are happy who can assume such a command over
themselves ; that it is much safer to live as they do ; you
say this, and you think it needless to imitate or follow
their example ? Madman ! cries the apostle, what delu-
sion is it which blinds thee ? and wherefore dost thou not
obey that truth w hich thou knowest? Ah ! my brethren,
in a choice wliich interests our glory, our advancement,
our temporal interests, are we capable of such impru-
dence ? Of all the various ways which present themselves
to ambition, do we leave those where every appearance
seems favourable to our success, and make choice of such
as lead to nothing; wiiere fortune is tardy and doubtful;
and which have hitherto been only productive of misfor-
tune? Of salvation alone, therefore, we make a kind of
speculation, if I may venture so to speak: that is to say,
an undcrtaliing v, ithout arrangement, without precaution,
Avhich we abandon to the uncertainty of events, and of
Avhich the success can be expected from chance alone,
and not from our exertions. In a w ord, as my last re-
flection, allow me to ask, Why you search for, and ai-
led "'c so many specious reasons, as a justification to
vourselves, of the manners iii which you live? Eithtr
Vou wish to be saved, or you are determined to be lost.
Do you vrish to be saved ? Choose, then, the most pro-
l^^^V liicans of attaining w hat you aspire to. Quit thof^e
O.V SALVATIOX. ^5
'lôuljtfiil paths, by which lîoue have hitherto been con-
ducted to it; confine yourselves to that which Jesus Christ
has pointed out to iis^ and which alone can safely lead
us to it; do not endeavour to lessen in your own sight the
dangers of your situation, ainl to view them in the most
favourable light; in order to dread them less; rather mag-
nify the danger to your mind ; we cannot dread too much,
what we cannot shun too much ; and salvatioi* is the only
affair in which precaution can never be excessive, be-
cause a mistake in it is without remedy. See if those
who once followed the same deceitful paths in which you
tread, and who employed the same reasons that you
make use of, for their justification, have confined them-
selves to that course from the moment that grace had op-
erated in their hearts a serious and sincere desire of sal-
vation : They regarded the dangers in which you live,
as incompatible with their design ; they sought more sol-
id and certain paths ; they made the holy safety of re-
tirement, succeed to the inutility and the dangers of so-
ciety and business ; the habit of prayer, to the dissipa-
tion of gaming and amusements ; the restraint of the
senses, to the indecency of dress, and the danger of pub-
lic spectacles ; christian mortification, to the softness of
an effeminate and sensual life : the gospel, to the world;
they comprehended that it would be absurd to wish their
salvation through the same means by which others are
lost. But, if you are determined to perish, alas ! why
will you still keep measures with religion ? Why will
you always seek to place some specious reasons on your
side ; to reconcile your manners with the gospel ; and to
preserve, as T may say, appearances still with Jesus
Christ? Why are you only half sinners, and still leave
40 .V E It M O X 1.
to your grossest passions the useless check of tlie law ?
Cast off the remains of that yoke which is irksome to you ;
und which, in lessening your pleasures, lessons not your
punishment. Why do you accomplish your perdition
with so mucli constraint? In place of those scruples,
which permit you only doubtful gains, and deny you cer-
tain low, and manifestly wicked profits, hut whicli place
you in the number of those reprobates who shall never
possess the kingdom of God ; overleap these bounds,
and no longer set any limits to your guilt, but those of
your cupidity; in place of those loose and worldly man-
ners, which will equally prove your ruin, refuse nothing
to your passions, and, like the beasts of the earth, yield
to the gratification of every desire. Yes, sinners, perish
with all the fruits of iniquity, seeing you will equally
i^ap tears and eternal punishment.
But, no, my dear hearer — we only give you these coun-
sels of despair, in order to inspire you with a just horror
of them ; it is a tender artifice of zeal, which only as-
sûmes the appearance of exhorting you to destruction,
that you may not consent yourselves : alas ! follow ra-
ther those remains of light, whicli still point out the truth
to you at a distance ; it is not without reason that the
Lord has hitherto preserved within you these seeds of
salvation, and has not permitted all, even to the rudi-
ments, to be blotted out ; it is a claim which He still pre-
serves to your heart ; take care only, that you found not
upon this, the vain hope of a future conversion ; we are
not permitted to hope, till we have begun to labour. Be-
gin, then, the grand work of your eternal salvation, for
which, alone, the Almighty has placed you upon earth ;
and on which you have never as yet bestowed even a
OA^ SJLVATIO.V: 47
thought. Regard with esteem so important a care; pre-
fer it to all others ; find yoar ouly pleasures in apply-
ing to it; examine the surest and most proper means to
succeed, and fix upon them, whatever they cost, from the
moment you have found them out.
Such is the prudence of the gospel, so often recom-
mended hy Jesus Christ; beyond that, all is vanity, and
error. You may possess a superior mind, capable of ev-
ery exertion, and rare and shining talents ; if you err
with regard to your eternal salvation, you are a child.
Solomon, so esteemed in the east for his wisdom, is a
madman, whose folly we can now with difficulty com-
prehend. All worldly reason is but a mockery, a daz-
zling of the senses, if it mistakes the decisive point of
eternity. There is nothing important in life but this sin-
gle object ; all the rest is a dream, in which any mistake
is of little consequence. Trust not yourselves, therefore,
to the multitude, that is the party of those who err; take
not as guides, men who can never be your sureties ; leave
nothing to chance, or to the uncertainty of events ; it is
the heiglit of folly where eternity is concerned ; remem-
l}er that there is an infinity of paths, which appear right
to men, yet, nevertheless, conchict to death; that almost
all w'ho perish, do it in the belief that they are in the
way of salvation ; and that all reprobates, at the last
<Iay, when they shall hear their sentence pronounced, ^vill
be surprised, says the gospel, at their condemnation ;
because they all expected the inheritance of the just. It
is thus, that after having waited in this life, according
to the rules of faith, you w411 for ever enjoy it in heaven.
INTow, to God, &c.
( 48
SERMON IL
ON THE SMALL NUMBER OF THE
SAVED.
Luke iv. 27.
And many lepers were in Israel in the time of Eliseus
the prophet ; and none of them were cleansed, sa-
ving JWaman the Syrian,
Every day, my brethren, you ask if the road to hea-
ven is really so difficult, and the number of the saved is
indeed so small as Ave say? To a question so often
proposed, and still oftener resolved, our Saviour now
answers you ; that there were many widows in Israel
afflicted with famine, but the widow of Sarepta was
alone found worthy the succour of the prophet Elias ;
that the number of lepers was great in Israel in the
time of the prophet Eliseus ; and that nevertheless, Naa*
man was the onlv one cured bv the man of God.
OjV the small j^umber of the saved. 49
Were I here, my brethren, for the purpose of alarm-
ing, rather than msfriictirig you, it would he necessary-
only to recapitulate what in the holy writings we find ter-
rible, with regard to this great truth ; and running over
the history of tlie just, from age to age, to show you, that
in all times the number of he saved has been very small.
The family of Noah alone saved from the general flood ;
Abraham, chosen from amongst men, to be the sole depos-
itory of the c^venaiit with God : Joshua and Caleb, the
only two of six hundred thousand Hebrews, w ho saw
the land of promise : Job, the only upright man in the
land of Uz : Lot, in Hodom. To representations so
alarming, would have succeeded the sayings of the pro-
phets. In Isaiah, you would see the elect as rare as the
grapes which are fouud after the vintage, and have es-
caped the search of the gatherer ; as rare as the blades
which remain by chance in the field, and which the
scythe of the mower has spared. The scripture would
still have added new traits to the terrors of these images.
I might have spoken to you of two roads ; of which one
is narrow, rugged, and the path of a very small number;
the other broad, open, and strewed with flowers, and
almost the general path of men. That every where, in
the holy writings, the multitude is always spoken of
as forming the party of the reprobate, while the saved,
compared with the rest of mankind, form only a small
flock, scarcely perceptible to the sight. I would have
left you m fears with regard to your salvation ; always
distressing to those who have not renounced faith, and
every hope of being amongst the saved. But what would
it serve, to limit the fruits of this instruction, to the sin-
gle point of proving, how few persons are saved? Alas !
Vol. I. 5
50 sEJiMOjX n.
I should make the danger known, without instructing
you how to avoid it : I should show you, with the pro-
phet, the sword of the wrath of God, suspended over
your heads, without assisting you to escape the threaten-
ed blow : I should alarm the conscience, without in-
structing the sinner.
My intention is therefore to-day, to search in our
morals and manner of life, for the cause of this number
being so small. As every one flatters himself he will
not be excluded, it is of importance to examine if his
confidence be well founded. I wish in pointing out to
you the causes which render salvation so rare, not to
make you generally conclude, that few will be saved ;
but to bring you to ask of yourselves» if, living as you
live, you can hope to be so. Who am I ? What is it
I do to merit heaven ; and what can be my hopes of
eternity ? 1 propose no other order, in a matter of such
importance. W^hat are the causes which render salva-
tion so rare ? I mean to point out three principal ones,
the only plan of this discourse. Art and far-sought
reasonings would here be ill-timed. Attend therefore,
be ye whom you may ; no subject can be more worthy
your attention, since you are about to learn what may be
the hopes of your eternal destiny.
Part I. Few are saved, because in that number
we can comprehend only two descriptions of persons 5
either those wlio have been so happy as to preserve
their innocence pure and undefiled ; or those who, after
having lost, have regained it by penitence: — This is the
first cause. There are only these two ways of salva-
tion ; and heaven is oidy open to the innocent or the
penitent. Now, of which party are you? Are you in-
nocent? Are you penitent?
OJV* THE SMALL J\rUMBES OF THE SAVED. 5i
Nothing unclean can enter the kingdom of God. We
must consequently carry there, either an innocence pre-
served, or an innocence regained. Now, to die inno-
cent, is a grace to which few souls can aspire ; and to
live penitent, is a favour, which the relaxed state of our
morals renders equally rare. Who indeed will pretend
to salvation, by the claim of innocence ? Where are
the pure souls in whom sin has never dwelt; and who
have preserved to the end the sacred treasure of grace
confided to them by baptism, and which our Saviour
will re-demand at the awful day of punishment?
In those happy days, when the whole church was
still but an assembly of saints, it was very uncommon
to find an instance of a believer, who, after having re-
ceived the gifts of the Holy Spirit, and acknowledged
Jesus Christ in the sacrament which regenerates us, fell
back to his former irregularities of life. Annanias and
Sapphira were the only apostates in the church of Je-
rusalem ; that of Corinth had only one incestuous sinner.
Church-penitence was then a remedy almost unknown ;
and scarcely was there found among these true Israel-
ites, one single leper whom they were obliged to drive
from the holy altar, and separate from communion with
his brethren. But since that time, the number of the up-
right diminishing, in proportion as tliat of believers in-
creases, the progress of the Gosjiel it would seem has
checked that of piety, and tlie whole world having be-
come christian, has brought with it into the Church its
corruptions and its maxims. Alas — we all go astray,
almost from the breast of our mothers ! The first use
we make of our heart is a crime : our first desires are
passions ; and our reason only expands and increases
S2 SE R MO J^ IL
oa the ruin of our innocence. Tîie earth, says a pro-
phetj is infected by the corruption of those wlio inhabit
it; All have violated the laws, changed the ordinances,
and broken the covenant which should have endured
for ever : All commit sin ; and scarcely is there one to
be found who acts uprightly. Injustice, calumny, lying,
treachei-y, adultery and the blackest crimes, have delu-
ged the earth. The brother lays snares for his brother ;
the father is divided from his children ; the husband
from his wife : There is no tie which interested motives
do not dissolve : Good faith is no longer a virtue but
among tiie simple ; animosities are endless ; reconcil-
iation a pretence ; and never is an enemy regarded as
a brother: Men tear and devour each other. Assem-
blies are no longer but for the purpose of publick and
general censure. The purest virtue is no longer a pro-
tection from the malignity of tongues. Games have
become the source of traffic, of fraud, or of frenzy. Re-
pasts, those innocent ties of society, degenerate into ex-
cesses, of which we dare not speak. Our age witnesses
horrors, with which our forefathers were unacquainted.
Behold, then, already one path of salvation shut to the
generality of men. All have erred. Be ye whom you
may, who listen to me at present, the time has been,
when sin reigned over you : Age may perhaps have
calmed your passions; but what was your youth? Ha-
bitual infirmities may perhaj)s have disgusted you with
the world ; î)ut what use did you formerly make of the
vigour of health ? A sudden inspiration of grace may
have turned your heart; but do you not most fervently
entreat, that every moment prior to that inspiration may
be effaced from the remembrance of the Lord?
0J\ THE SMALL XUMBEH OF THE SAVED. 53
But with what am I taking up my time? We are all
vsiiiuers, O my God ! And Thou knowest our hearts :
What we know of our errors, is perhaps in Thy sight the
most pardonable ; and we all allow, that by innocence
we have no claim to salvation. There remains, there-
fore, only one resource, which is penitence. After our
shipwreck, say the saints, it is the happy plank which a-
lone can conduct us into port ; there is no other means of
salvation for us. Be you whom you may, prmce or sub-
ject, great or low, penitence alone can save you. Now,
permit me to ask, where are the penitent? You will
find more, says a holy father, who have never fallen,
than who, after their fall, have raised themselves by true
repentance. This is a terrible saying ; but do not let us
carry things too far ; the truth is sufficiently dreadful,
without adding new terrors to it by vain declamation.
Now let me ask, have we a right through penitence to
salvation ? What is a penitent ? According to Tertul-
lian, a penitent is a believer, w^ho feels every moment
the unhappiness which he formerly had, to forget and
lose his God ; who has his guilt incessantly before his
eyes ; who finds every where the traces and remem-
brance of it.
A penitent is a man, entrusted by God with judg-
ment against himself; who refuses himself the most in-
nocent pleasures, because he had formerly indulged in
the most criminal ; who bears the most necessary ones
with pain; who now regards his body as an enemy,
whom it is necessary to conquer; as an unclean vessel
which must be purified ; as an unfaithful debtor, of whom
it is proper to exact the last farthing. A penitent re-
gards himself as a criminal condemned to death, because
5é sermojX il
he is no longer worthy of life. In the loss of riches or
health, he sees only a privation of favours that he had
formerly abused ; in the humiliations which happen to
him, but the pains of his guilt: in the agonies with
wliich he is racked, but the commencement of those pun-
ishments be has justly merited ; such is a penitent. But
I again ask you, Where amongst us are penitents of
this description ? Now look around you. I do not tell
you to judge your brethren, but to examine what are
the manners and morals of tbose who surround you ; nor
do I speak of those open and avowed sinners, who have
thrown off even the appearance of virtue ; I speak only
of those who, like yourselves tread in the common path^
and whose actions present nothing to the public view,
particularly shameful or depraved. They are sinners ;
and they admit it : You are not innocent ; and you con-
fess it yourselves. Now, are they penitent ; or are you ?
Age, avocations, more serious employments, may per-
haps have weaned you from the passions of youth : E-
ven the bitterness wliich the Almiglity has made atten-
dant on our passions ; the deceits, the treacheries of the
world; an injured fortune, and a ruined constitution,
may have cooled the ardour, and confined the irregular
desires of your heart ; Crimes may have disgusted you
even with crime, for passions gradually extinguish
themselves. Time, and tlie natural inconstancy of the
heart, will sever these bonds ; yet nevertheless, though
disgusted with creation, you are no nearer your God-.
According to the world, you are become more prudent,
more regular, more what it calls men of probity ; more
exact in fulfilling your public or private duties ; but you
are not penitent. Your immoralities have ceased ; but
OJV* THE SMALL jYUMBER OF THE SAVED. 55
you have not expiated them : You are not converted ;
this great stroke — this grand change of the heart, wliich
regenerates man, has not yet been felt by you* Never-
theless, this situation, so truly dangerous, does not a-
larm you : Sins, which have never been washed away
by sincere repentance, and consequently never oblitera-
ted from the book of life, appear in your eyes as no lon-
ger existing ; and you will tranquilly leave this world
in a state of impenitence, so much the more dangerous,
as you will die without being sensible of your danger.
What I say here, is not merely a rash expression, or
an emotion of zeal ; nothing is more real, or more ex-
actly true : It is the situation of almost all men, even
the wisest and most esteemed by the w^orld.
The manners of the first stages of life are always
licentious. Age, disgust, and establishments for life, fix
the heart, and withdraw it from debauchery : but where
are those who are converted ? Where are those who ex-
piate their crimes by tears of sorrow, and true repen-
tance ? Where are those who, having begun as sinners,
end as penitents ? Show me, in your manner of living,
the smallest trace of penitence. Are your graspings at
wealth and power, your anxieties to attain the favour of
the great, (and by these means an increase of employ-
ments and influence,) are these proofs of it ? Would you
wish to reckon even your crimes as virtues ? That your
ambition, pride, and avarice, should discharge you from
an obligation which they themselves have imposed ? You
are penitent to the world, but are you so to Jesus Christ?
The infirmities with which God afflicts you ; the enemies
He raises up against you; the disgraces and losses with
which He tries you; do you receive them all as you ought,
56 sEiiMojsr IL
with humble submission to His will ; and, far from find-
ing in them occasions of penitence, do you not make
them the motives of new crimes? It is the duty of an in-
nocent soul, to receive with submission the chastisements
of the Almighty; to discharge, with courage, the painful
duties of the station allotted to him, and to be faithful to
the laws of the church ; but do sinners ow e nothing be-
yond this? And yet you pretend to salvation ; but upon
what ground ? To say that you are innocent before God,
your own conscience will bear testimony against you.
To endeavour to persuade yourselves that you are pen-
itent, you dare not ; and you would condemn yourselves
by your own mouths. Upon what, then, dost thou de-
pend, O man ! who thus livest so tranquil.
And what renders it still more dreadful is, that, act-
ing in this manner, you only follow the torrent: Your
morals are the morals of almost all men. You may,
perhaps, be acquainted with some still more guilty,
(for I suppose you to have still remaining some sen-
timents of religion, and regard for your salvation ; )
but do you know any real penitents ? I am afraid we
must search ilie cloisters and solitudes for them. You
can scarcely particularize among persons of your rank
and situation in life, a small number, whose morals anil
manners, more austere and more guarded than the gen-
erality, attract the attention, and very likely the censure
of the public : All the rest walk in the same path. I
see clearly that every one comforts himself to the exam-
ple of his neighbour : That, in this point, children suc-
ceed to the false security of their fathers ; that none live
innocent ; that none die penitent ; T see it ; and I cry,
O God ! if Thou hast not deceived us ; if all Thou hast
ojv the small a'umber of the saved. ^7
told us with regard to the road of eternal life, shall be
fulfilled to a point — If the number of those who nuist
perish, shall not influence thee to abate the severi-
ty of Thy laws, what will become of that immense
multitude of creatures, which every hour disappears
from the face of the earth ? Where are our friends,
our relations, who have gone before us — and what is
their lot in the eternal regions of death ? What shall
we ourselves be one day? — When formerly a prophet
complained to the Lord, that all Israel had forsaken
His protection. He replied, that seven thousand still
remained, who had not bowed the knee to Baal :
Behold the number of pure and faithful souls which
a whole kingdom then contained ! But couldst Thou
still, O my God ! comfort the anguish of Tlij servants
to-day by the same assurance ? I know that Thine
eye discerns still some upright among us ; that the priest-
hood has still its Phineas ; the magistracy its Samuels ;
the sword its Joshuas ; tiie court its Daniels, its Esthers,
and its Davids ; for the world only exists for Thy elect ;
and all would perish were the number accomplished :
But those happy remains of the children of Israel who
shall inherit salvation, what are they, compared to the
grains of sand in the sea; I mean, to that number of sin-
ners who prepare their own destruction ; After this, my
brethren, can you inquire, if it be true, that few
shall be saved? Thou hast said it, O my God! and con-
sequently it is a truth which will endure for ever.
But, even admitting that the Almighty had not spo-
ken thus, I would wish, in the second place — To review,
for an instant, what passes among men : The laws by
which they are governed : The maxims by wliich the
Vol. I. 6
58 SERMOJ\i' IT.
multitude is regulated : This is the second cause why
so few are saved ; and, properly speaking, is only a
developement of the first : The force of habit and cus-
tom.
Part II. Few people are saved, because the max-
ims most universally received in all countries, and upon
which in general, depend the morals of the multitude,
are incompatible with salvation. The rules laid down,
approved, and authorized by the world, with regard to
the application of wealth, the love of glory, Christian
moderation, and the duties of offices and conditions ; are
diametrically opposite to those of the evangelists, and
consecpaently can lead only to deatlu I shall not, at
present, enter into a detail too extended for a discourse,
and too little serious, perhaps, for the pulpit.
I need not tell you, that it is an established custom
in the world, to proportion expenses to rank and wealth;
and provided it is a patrimony we inherit from our an-
cestors, we may distinguish ourselves by the use of it,
without restraint to our luxury, or without regard, in
our profusion, to any thing but our pride and caprice.
But Christian moderation has its rules. We are not
the absolute masters of our riches ; nor are we entitled
to abuse what the Almighty has bestowed upon us for
better purposes. Above all, while thousands of unfortu-
nate wretches languish in poverty, whatever we make
use of beyond the wants and necessary expenses of our
station, is an inhumanity to, and a theft from, the poor.
These are refinements of devotion, it may be said ; and in
matters of expense and profusion, notliing is excessive or
blameable, according to the world, but what may tend
to derange the fortune. I need not tell you, that it is an
OJV THE SMALL .YUMBER OF THE SAVED. 59
approved custom, to decide our lots, and to regulate our
choice of profession or situation in life, by the order of
our birth, or the interests of fortune. But, O my God !
does the ministry of Thy gospel derive its source from
the worldly considerations of a carnal birth ? We can-
not establish all, says the world, and it would be melan-
choly to see persons of rank and birth in occupations
unworthy of their dignity. If born to a name distin-
guished in the world, you must rise by dint of intrigue,
aieanness, and expense, to make fortune your idol. Am-
bition, however much condemned by the laws of the
gospel, is only a sentiment worthy your name and birth.
You are of a sex and rank which introduce you to the
gaieties of the world : You cannot but do as others do ;
You must frequent all the public places, where those of
your age and rank assemble ; enter into the same plea-
sures ; pass your days in the same frivolities, and ex-
pose yourself to the same dangers ; these are the recei-
ved maxims ; and you are not made to reform them ;
Such is the doctrine of the world.
Now, permit me to ask you here, who confirms you
in these ways ? By what rule are they justified to your
mind ? Who authorizes you in this dissipation, which is
neither agreeable to the name you have received by bap-
tism, nor perhaps to those you hold from your ancestors?
Who authorizes those public pleasures, which you only
think innocent, because your soul, already too familiari-
zed with sin, feels no longer the dangerous impressions
or tendency of them ? Who authorizes you to lead an
effeminate and sensual life, without virtue, forbearance,
or any religious exercise ? To live like a stranger in the
midst of your own family, disdaining to inform yourself
60 SE RjMOJ^ If
with regard to the morals of those dependent upon you?
Through an affected state, to be ignorant whether they
believe in the same Grod ; whether they fulfil the duties
of the religion you profess? Who authorizes you in
maxims so opposite to Christianity? Is it the gospel of
Jesus ('lirist? Ts it the doctrine of tlie apostles and
saints ? For surely some rule is necessary to assure us
that we are in safety. What is yours ? Custom : This
is the only reply you can make. We see none around
us, but those who conduct themselves in the same way,
and by the same rule. Entering into the world, we find
its manners already established : Our fathers lived thus,
and from them we copy our customs : The wisest con-
form to them : An individual cannot be wiser than the
whole world, and must not pretend to make himself sin-
gular, by acting contrary to the general voice. Such,
my brethren, are your only comforts against all the
terrors of religion. N one act up to the law. The pub-
lic example is the only guarantee of our morals. We
never reflect, that, as the Holy Spirit says, the laws of
the people are vain : That our Saviour has left us rules,
in which neither time, age, nor custom, can ever author-
ize the smallest change : That the heavens and the
earth shall pass away ; tliat customs and manners shall
change ; but tliat the Divine laws will everlastingly be
the same.
We content ourselves with looking around us. We
do not reflect, that what at present we call custom,
would, in former times, before the morals of Christians
became degenerated, liave been regarded as monstrous
singularities ; ami, if corruption has gained ground
since that period, these vices, though they have lost
OA' THE SMALL JVUMBER OF THE SAVED. 6l
their singularity, have not lost their malignity. We
do not rellect, that we shall be judged by the gospel,
and not by custom ; by the examples of the holy, and
not by men^s opinions ; that the habits, which are only
established among believers by the relaxation of faith,
are abuses we are to lament, not examples we are to fol-
low : That, in changing our manners, they have not
changed our duties : That the common and general ex-
ample which authorizes them, only proves that virtue is
rare, but not that profligacy is permitted. In a w ord,
that piety and a really Christian life, are too unpalatable
to our depraved nature ever to be practised by the ma-
jority of men. Come now^ and say, that you only do as
others do — It is exactly by that you condemn youi'-
selves. What ! the most terrible certainty of your con-
demnation, shall become the only motive for your confi-
dence ! Which, according to the scriptures, is the road
that conducts to death ? Is it not that w hich the majori-
ty pursues ? Which is the party of the reprobate ? Is it
not the multitude ? You do nothing but what others do.
But thus, in the time of N oah, perished all who were
buried under the waters of tlie deluge : All who, in the
time of Nebuchadnezzar, prostrated themselves before
the golden calf: All wlio, in the time of Elijah, bowed
the knee to Baal : All who, in the time of Eleazar, a-
bandoned the law of their fathers. You only do what
others do; but that is exactly what the Scriptures for-
bid : Do not, they tell us, conform yourselves to this cor-
rupted age. Now the corrupted age, means not tlie
small number of just, whom you endeavour not to imi-
tate ; it means the multititude whom you follow. You
only do what otiiers do ; you will consequently experi-
62 6'i:jèM0j\i^ II.
ence the same lot. Now, "Alas ! (cried formerly St.
" Augustin,) fatal torrent of human customs ; wilt thou,
^•' never suspend thy course ? Even to the end wilt thou
" drag in the children of Adam to thine immense and
^' terrible abyss ? '^
In place of saying to ourselves, " What are my
^' hopes ? In the church of Jesus Christ there are two
*' roads ; one broad and open, by which almost the whole
^' world passes, and which leads to death; the other
" narrow, where few indeed enter, and which conduces
*' to life eternal — in which of these am 1 ? Are my mor-
*' als the usual ones of persons of my rank, age, and sit-
^^ uation in life ? Am 1 with the great number ? Then
^» I am not in the right path. I am losing myself. The
'^ great number in every station is not the party saved.'^
Far from reasoning in this manner, we say to ourselves ;
^' I am not in a worse state than others ; those of my
" rank and age live as I do : Why should I not live
^Mikethem?" Why, my dear hearers, for that very
reason : The general mode of living cannot be that of a
Christian life — In all ages, the holy have been remark-
able and singular men : Their manners were always
different from those of the world ; and they have only
been saints, because their lives had no similarity to those
of the rest of mankind. In the time of Esdras, in spite
of the prohibition against it, the custom prevailed of in-
termarrying with women of other nations : This abuse
became general : The priests and the people no longer
made any scruple of it : But what did this holy restorer
of the law — or did he follow the example of his breth-
ren ? Did he believe, that guilt, in becoming general,
became more legitimate ? No. He recalled the people
OA' THE SMALL JVUMBEB OF THE SAVED. 63
to a sense of the abuse : He took the book of the law in
his hand, explained it to the affrighted people, and cor-
rected custom by the trutli. Follow, from age to age,
the history of the just; and see if Lot conformed liimself
to the habits of Sodom, or if nothing distinguislied him
from the other inhabitants : If Abraham lived like the
rest of his age : If Job resembled the other princes of
his nation : If Esther conducted herself in the court of
Ahasuerus like the other women of that prince : If ma-
ny w idows in Israel resembled Judith : If, among tlie
children of the captivity, it is not said of Tobias alone,
that he copied not the conduct of his brethren ; and that
he even tied from the danger of their commerce and so-
ciety. See, if in those happy ages, w hen Christians
were all saints, they did not shine like stars in the midsi
of coiTupt nations ; and if they served not as a specta-
cle to angels and men, by the singularity of their lives
and manners : If the Pagans did not reproach them for
their retirement, and shunning of all public theatres, pla-
ces, and pleasures : If they did not complain that the
Christians affected to distinguish themselves in every
thing from their fellow citizens ; to form a separate peo-
pie in the midst of the people ; to have their particular
laws and customs ; and if a man from their side embra-
ced the party of the Christians, they did not consider
him as for ever lost to their pleasures, assemblies, and
customs : In a word, see, if in all ages the saints whose
lives and actions have been transmitted to us, have i^e-
sembled the rest of mankind.
You will perhaps tell us, that all these are singulari-
ties and exceptions, rather than rules w hich the world is
©bliged to follow. They are exceptions, it is true \ but
64! SERMOJV II
it is because tlie general rule is, to throw away salva-
tion ; and that a religious and pious soul in the midst of
the world, is always a singularity approaching to a mira-
cle. The whole world, you say, is not obliged to follow
these examples ; but is not piety the general duty of all?
To be saved, must we not be holy ? Must heaven, with
difficulty and pain, be gained by some, and with ease by
others ? Have you any other gospel to follow ; other du-
ties to fulfil ; other promises to hope for, than those of
the Holy Bible ? Ah ! since there was another way
more easy to arrive at salvation ; wherefore, ye pious
Christians, who at this moment enjoy in heaven that
kingdom, gained with toil, and at the expense of your
blood, did ye leave us examples so dangerous and use-
less.
Wherefore have ye opened for us a road, rugged, dis-
agreeable, and calculated to repress our ardour, seeing
there was another you could have pointed out, more ea-
sy, and more likely to attract us, by facilitating our pro-
gress ? Great God! how little does mankind consult
reason in the point of eternal salvation !
Will you CO. i sole yourselves after this with being a-
mong the multitude, as if the greatness of the number
could render the guilt unpunished, and the Almighty
durst not condemn all those who live like you ? But
what are all creatures in the sight of God ? Did the mul-
tirude of the guilty prevent Him from destroying all flesh
at the deluge ? from making fire from heaven descend
upon the five iniquitous cities ? from burying in the wa-
ters of the Red Sea, Pharoah and all his army ? from
striking with death all who murmured in the desert?
Ah ! the kings of the earth may have regard to the num-
0;V THE SMALL JVUJUBER OF THE SAVED. 65
ber of the guilty, because the punishment becomes im-
possible, or at least dangerous, when tlie fault is become
general. But God, who wipes the impious, says Job,
from off the face of the earth, as one wipes the dust from
off a garment ; God, in whose sight all people and na-
tions are as if they were not, numbers not the gudty : He
has regard only to the crime ; and all that the weak and
miserable sinner can expect from his unhappy accompli-
ces, is to have them as companions in his misery. But
if few are saved, because the maxims most universally
adopted, are maxims of sin ; so few are saved, because
the maxims and duties most universally unknown, or re-
jected, ai*e those most indispensible to salvation. This
is my last reflection, which is indeed nothing more than
the proof, and the explanation of the former ones.
Part III. What are the engagements of the holy
vocation to which we have all been called ? The sol-
emn promises of baptism. What have we promised at
baptism ? To renounce the world, the devil, and the
flesh : These are our vows : This is the situation of tlie
Christian : These are the essential conditions of our cov-
enant with God, by which eternal life has been promis-
ed to us. These truths may appear familiar, and
destined for the vulgar ; but it is a mistake : >iothing
can be more sublime ; and, alas ! nothing is more gen-
erally unknown. It is at the courts of kings, and to the
princes of the earth, that we ought unceasingly to an-
nounce them. Alas ! they are well instructed in all the
affairs of the world, while the first principles of Chris-
tian morality are frequently more unknown to them than
to humble and simple hearts. At your baptism, you
have then renounced the world. It i& a promise you
Vol. I. 7
66 SËiiMoj\ a.
have made to God, before the holy altar ; the Church
has been the guarantee and depository of it ; and you
have only been admitted into the number of believers, and
marked with the undefeasible seal of salvation, upon the
faith that you have sworn to the Lord, to love neither
the world, nor w hat the world loves. Had you then
answered, what you now repeat every day, that you find
not the world so black and pernicious as we say $ that
after all, it may innocently be loved ; and that we only
decry it from the pul[)it, because Ave do not know it — and
since you are to live in the world, you wish to live like
those who are in it — Had you answered thus, the Church
would not have received you into its bosom ; would not
have connected you with the hope of Christians, nor join-
ed you in communion with those who have overcome the
world. She would have advised you to go and live with
those infidels who know not our Haviour. For this rea-
son it was, that, informer ages,those of the Catechumen,
who could not prevail upon themselves to renounce the
world and its pleasures, put off their baptism till death ;
and durst not approach the holy altar, to contract by the
sacrament, which regenerates us, engagements of which
they knew the importance and sanctity, and to fulfil
which, they felt themselves still unqualified. You are
therefore required, by the most sacred of all vows, to
hate the world ; that is to say, not to conform to it. If
you love it, if you follow its pleasures and customs, you
are not only, as St John says, the enemy of God, but you
likewise renounce the faith given in l)aptism ; you ab-
jure the gospel of Jesus Christ; you are an apostate
from religion, and trample under foot the most sacred
and irrevocable vows that man can make. Now, w^hat
OJV* THE SMALL JVUMBEn OF THE SAVED. 6?
is this world wJiich you ought to hate ? I have only to
answer^ it is the one you love. You will never mistake
\i by this mark : This world is a society of sinners,
whose desires, fears, hopes, cares, projects, joys, and
cliagrins, no longer turn but upon the successes or mis-
fortunes of this life. This world is an assemblage of
people, who look upon the earth as their country ; tlie
time to come as an exilement ; the promises of faith as a
dream ; and death as the greatest of all misfortunes.
This world is a temporal kingdom, where our Saviour is
unknown ; where those acquainted with His name glo-
rify Him not as their Lord ; hate His maxims ; despise
His followers ; and neglect or insult Him in His sacra-
ments and worship. In a word, to give a proper idea
at once of this world, it is the multitude : this is the
world, which you ought to shun — hate, and combat with
your example.
Now, is this your situation with regard to the world ?
Are its pleasures disagreeable to you ? Do its excesses
afflict you ? Do you regret the length of your pilgrimage
here ? Have you nothing in common witli it ? Are you
not one of its principal actors ? Are not its laws your
laws ; its maxims your maxims ? What it condemns, do
you not condemn? Do you not approve what it ap-
proves? And should it happen, that you alone were left
upon the earth, may we not say that the corrupt world
would be revived in you ; and that you would leave an
exact model of it to your posterity ? When I say you, I
mean, and I address myself to almost all men.
Where are those who sincerely renounce tlie pleas-
ures, habits, maxims, and hopes of this world ? We
find many who complain of it ; and accuse it of injus-
6s es EM MO jY II
tice, ingratitude, and caprice 5 who speak warmly of it»
abuses and errors ; but in decrying, tliey continue to love^
and to follow it : they cannot bring themselves to do
without it: in complaining of its injustice, they are only
piqued at it, they are not undeceived ; they feel its hard
treatment, but they are unacquainted with its dangers ;
they censure, but where are those who hate it? And
now, my brethren, you may judge if many can have a
claim to salvation.
In the second place, you have renounced the flesh at
your baptism ; that is to say, you have contracted not to
live according to the sensual appetite ; to regard even
indolence and effeminacy as crimes ; not to flatter the
corrupt desires of the flesh ; but to chastise, crush, and
crucify it. This is not an acquired perfection ; it is a
vow ; it is the first of all duties ; it is the character of a true
Christian, and inseparable from faith. In a word, you
have anathematized Satan and all his works. And
w hat are his works ? That which composes almost the
thread and end of your life ; pomp, pleasure, luxury^
and dissipation; lying, of which he is the father; pride,
of which he is the model ; jealousy and contention, of
which he is the artizan. But I ask you, where are those
who have not withdrawn the anatiiema they had pro-
nounced against Satan ? Thus, (to mention it as we
go along,) are many of the questions answered.
You continually ask, if theatres, and other public
places of amusement, be innocent recreations for Chris-
tians ? In return, I have only one question to ask you,
Are they the works of Satan, or of Jesus Christ? for
there can be no medium in religion. I mean not to say,
litit that manv recreations and amusements may be
ox THE SMALL J^UMBER OF THE SAVED. 6^
termed indiifereut. But the most indifferent pleasure?!
winch religion allows, and which the weakness of our
uature renders even necessary, belong, in one sense, to
Jesus Christ, by the facility with which they ought to
enable us to apply ourselves to more holy and more se-
rious duties. Every thing we do, every thing we re-
joice or weep at, ought to be of such a nature as to have
a connection with Jesus Christ, and to be done for His
glory. Now, upon this principle, the most incontesti-
ble, and most universally allowed in Christian morality,
you have only to decide, whether you can connect the
glory of Jesus Christ with the pleasures of a theatre.
Can our Saviour have any part in such a species of re-
creation ? And before you enter them, can you, with con-
fidence, declare to Him, that in so doing, you only pro-
pose to yourselves His glory, and to enjoy the satisfac-
tion of pleasing Him ? What Î The theatres, such as
they are at present, still more criminal by the public li-
centiousness of those unfortunate creatures who ascend
them, than by the impure and passionate scenes they re-
present— The theatres are the works of Jesus Christ! Je-
sus Christ, would He animate a mouth from whence are
to proceed lascivious and profane sounds, intended to cor-
rupt the heart ! These blasphemies strike me with hor-
ror. Jesus Christ, would He preside in assemblies of sin,
where every thing we hear weakens His doctrines ! where
the poison enters into the soul by all the senses ! where
every art is employed to inspire, awaken, and justify the
passions He condemns ! Now, says Tertullian, if they
are not the works of Jesus Christ, they must be the works
of Satan. Every Christian, therefore, ought to abstain
from them. When he partakes of tliem, he violates the
yO '^ E RMO jV 11.
VOWS of baptism. However innocent he may flatter
himself to be, in bringing from these places an untainted
heart, it is sullied by being there ; since by his presence
alone he has participated in tlie works of Satan, which
he had renounced at baptism, and violated the most sa-
cred promises he had made to Jesus Clnist and to His
Church.
These, my brethren, as I have already told you, are
not merely the advices and arts of enthusiasm : they are
the most essential of our obligations. But, alas ! who ful-
fils them? who even knows them? Ah ! my brethren, did
you know how far the title you bear, of Christian, engages
you ; could you comprehend the sanctity of your state ;
the hatred of the world, of yourself, and of every things
which is not of God, that it requires of you ; the life of
faith, the continual watching, the restraint of the passions,
in a word, the conformity with Jesus Christ crucified,
which it exacts of you; could you comprehend it; could
you remember, that as you ought to love God with all
your heart, and all your strength, a single desire that has
not connection with Him defiles you ; you would appear a
monster in your own sight. How ! would you say to
yourself; duties so holy, and morals so profane ! A vig-
ilance so continual, and a life so careless and dissipated !
A love of God so pure, so complete, so universal, and a
heart the continual prey of a thousand impulses, either
foreign or criminal ! If thus it is, who, O my God! will
be entitled to salvation ?
Few indeed, I am afraid, my dear liearer ; at least it
Avill not be you, (unless a change takes place,) nor those
who resemble you — it will not be the multitude. Who
shall be saved? those who work their salvation ^^ itli fear
OA THE SMALL .YUMBER OF THE SAVED. 7I
and trembling ; who live in the midst of the world, but
live not like the world. Who shall be saved ? that Chris-
tian woman, who, shut up in the circle of her domestic
duties, rears up her children in faith and piety ; divides
her heart only betwixt her Saviour and her husband ; is
adorned with delicacy and modesty ; sits not down in
the assemblies of vanity ; is not governed by the ridic-
ulous customs of the world, but regulates these customs
by the laAV of Grod ; and makes virtue appear more amia-
ble, by her rank and example. Who shall be saved ?
That believer, who, in the relaxation of modern times,
imitates the manners of the first Christians ; whose hands
are clean, and liis heart pure ; w atchful ; " who hath not
lift up his soul to vanity ;" but who, in the midst of the
dangers of the great world, continually applies himself
to purify it ; just, who swears not deceitfully against his
neighbour, nor is indebted to doubtful ways for the in-
nocent aggrandizement of his fortune; generous, who
with benefits repays the enemy who sought his ruin ; sin-
cere, who sacrifices not the truth to a vile interest, and
knows not the art of rendering himself agreeable, by be-
traying his conscience ; charitable, who makes his house
and power the refuge of his fellow-creatures, and himself
the consolation of the afflicted ; regards his wealth as the
property of the poor; humble in affliction. Christian un-
der injuries, and penitent even in prosperity. Who will
merit salvation ? You, my dear hearer, if you will fol-
low these examples ; for such are the souls to be saved.
Now these assuredly do not form the greatest number ;
While you continue, therefore, to live like the multitude,
it is certain, that you cannot pretend to salvation.
These, my brethren, are truths which should make us
7â
s L li M o .y IJ.
tremble; nor are they tliose vague ones wLicli are told
to all men, and which none apply to themselves. Per-
haps there is not in this assembly, an individual, who
may not say of himself, " I live like the world ; like
" those of my rank, age, and situation ; I am lost, should
" I die in this path." Now, what can be more likely
to alarm a soul, in whom some remains of care for his
salvation still exist? It is the multitude, nevertheless^
who tremble not. There is only a small number of just,
who seek their salvation apart from the multitude, w ith
fear and trembling ; all the rest are tranquil. After
having lived with the multitude, they flatter themselves
they shall be distinguished from them at dealh ; every
one augurs favourably for himself, and vainly thinks he
shall be an exception.
On this account it is, my brethren, that 1 confine my-
self to you who at present are assembled here ; I include
not the rest of men ; but consider you as alone existing
on the earth : This is the idea which occupies and a-
larms me, I figure to myself tiie present, as your last
hour, and the end of the Avorld ; that the heavens are a-
bout to open above your heads ; our Saviour in all His
glory, to appear in the midst of this temple ; and that
you are only assembled here to wait His coming, like
trembling criminals, on whom the sentence is to be pro-
nounced, either of life eternal, or of everlasting death ;
for it is vain to flatter yourselves, that you shall die more
innocent than you are at this hour. All those desires of
change with which you are amused, will continue to a-
muse you till death ; the experience of all ages proves it ;
all the difference you have to expect, will most likely be
only a larger balance against you than w hat you would
0J\' THE SMALL jTUMJBEJt OF THE SAVED. y^
have to answer for at present ; and from wliat would be
your destiny^ were you to be judged this moment, you
may almost decide upon what will take place at your
departure from life. Now^ I ask you, (and, connecting
my own- lot with yours, I ask it with dread,) were Jesus
Christ to appear in this temple, in the midst of this as-
sembly, to judge us, to make the dreadful separation
between the goats and tlie slieep, do you believe that the
greatest number of us would be placed at His right hand?
Do you believe that the number would at least be equal ?
Do you believe there would even be fouud ten upright
and faithful servants of the Lord, when formerly five ci-
ties could not furnish so many ? I ask you. You know
not ; and 1 know it nol. Thou alone^ O my God I know-
est who belong to Thee.
But if we know not who belong to Him, at least we
know that sinners do not. Now^ who are the just and
faithful assembled here at present ? Titles and digni-
ties avail nothing ; you are stripped of all these in the
presence of your Saviour. Who are they? Many sin-
ners, who wish not to be converted ; many more who
wish, but always postpone it ; many others, who are on-
ly converted in appearance, and again fall back to their
former courses. And, to conclude, a great number, who
flatter themselves they have no occasion for conversion.
This is the party of the reprobate. Ah ! my brethren,
cut off from this assembly these four classes of sinners,
for they will be cut off at the great day — And now ap-
pear, ye just: Where are ye? O God! where are Thy
chosen? And what portion remains to Thy share.
My brethren, our ruin is almost certain ; yet we think
Vol. I. 8
74 SERMOJ^' II.
not of it. Supposing even that in this terrible separation
which will one day take place, there should be only one
sinner in this assembly on the side of the reprobate, and
that a voice from heaven should assure us of it, without
particularizing him, which of us would not tremble, lest he
should be the unfortunate and devoted w retch ? Which of
us w ould not immediately apply to his conscience, to ex-
amine if its crimes merited not this punishment? Which of
us, seized with dread, would not demand of our Saviour,
as the apostles formerly did, and say, " Lord, is it I?"
And should a small respite be allow ed to our prayers,
which of us would not use every effort, by tears, suppli-
cation, and sincere repentance, to avert the misfortune ?
Are we in our senses, my dear hearers? Perhaps among
all who listen to me, i^n righteous would not be found :
perhaps few er. What do 1 know, O my God ! I dare not
with a fixed eye regard the depths of Thy judgments
and Thy justice. More than one, perhaps, would not be
found. And this danger affects you not, my dear hear-
er ! You persuade yourself, that in this great number
w ho shall perish, you will be the happy individual ; you,
who have less reason, perhaps, than any other to believe
it ; you, upon whom alone the sentence of death ought
to fall, w^ere only one of all who hear me to suffer ?
Great God ! how little are the terrors of Thy law known
to the world ! In all ages, the just have shuddered with
dread, in reflecting on the severity and extent of Thy
judgments upon the destinies of men — Alas ! what do
they prepare for the children of Adam !
But what are we to conclude from these great tmths ?
That all must despair of salvation? God forbid. The
impious alone, to quiet his ow^u feelings in his débauche-
OJ\r THE SMALL MUMBER OF THE SAVED. 75
lies, endeavours to persuade himself, that all men shall
perish as well as he.
This idea ought not to be the fruit of the present dis-
course. It is meant to undeceive you with regard to the
general error, that any one may do whatever others do ;
to convince you, that, in order to merit salvation, you
must distinguish yourselves from the rest ; live apart in
the midst of the world, and resemble not the multitude.
When the Jews were led in captivity from Judea to
Babylon, a little before they quitted their own country,
the prophet Jeremiah, whom the Lord had forbidden to
leave Jerusalem, spoke thus to them : " Children of Is-
^' rael, when you shall arrive at Babylon, you will be-
^' hold the inhabitants of that country, who carry upon
" their shoulders gods of silver and gold. All the peo-
'' pie will prostrate themselves, and adore them. But
^' you, far from allowing yourselves by these examples
^' to be led to impiety, say to yourselves in secret, it is
*^ Thou, O Lord ! whom we ought to adore.'^ Let me
now finish, by addressing to you the same words.
At youi' departure from this temple, you go to reen-
ter into another Babylon ; you go to revisit idols of gold
and silver, before which all men prostrate themselves ;
you go to regain the vain objects of human passions,
wealth, glory, and pleasure, which are the gods of this
world, and which almost all men adore ; you will see
those abuses which all the world permit; those errors
Avhich custom authorizes ; and those debaucheries which
an infamous fashion has almost constituted as laws.
Then, my dear hearer, if you wish to be of the small
number of true Israelites, say, in the secrecy of your
heart, It is Thou alone, 0 my God ! whom we ought to
7(5 SERMO.Y II.
adore. I wish not to have connection with a people who
know Thee not : I will have no other law than Thy
holy law ; the gods which this foolish multitude adore,
are not gods; they are the work of the hands of man ;
they will perish with him : Thou alone, O my God ! art
immortal ; and Thou alone deserve&t to be adored. The
customs of Babylon have no connection with the holy
laws of Jerusalem : I will continue to worship Thee
with that small number of the children of Abraham,
which still, in the midst of an infidel nation, composes
Thy people; with them, I will turn all my desires to-
wards the Holy Sion ; the singularity of my manners will
be regarded as a weakness, but blessed weakness, 0 my
God ! which will give me strength to resist the torrent of
customs, and the seduction of example : Thou wilt be
my God in the midst of Babylon, as Thou wilt one day
be in Jerusalem.
Ah! the time of the captivity will at last expire — Thou
wilt call to Thy remembrance, Abraham and David —
Thou wilt deliver Thy people ; Thou wilt transport ug
to the holy city ; theh wilt Thou alone reign over Israel,
and over the nations which at present know Thee not.
All being destroyed, all the empires and sceptres of the
earth, all the monuments of human pride annihilated,
and Thou alone remaining eternal ; we shall then know,
that Thou art the Lord of hosts, and the only God to be
adored.
Behold the fruit which you ought to reap from this
discourse ; live apart from mankind ; bear it always in
your mind that the great number work their own des-
truction ; regard as nothing all customs of the earth, un-
less authorized by the law of God ; and remember, that
holy men liave in all ages been looked upon as singular.
OjY the small mJMBER OF THE SAVED. 77
It is thus, that, after distinguishing yourselves from
the sinful on earth, you will be gloriously separated
from them in eternity.
Now, to God the Father, kc.
(78)
SERMON m.
THE DISGUSTS ACCOMPANYING
VIRTUE.
John x. 31.
Uien the Jews took up stones again, to stone Him,
Behold then, my brethren, the marks of gratitude
which Jesus Christ receives from men ; behold the con-
solations which Heaven prepares for Him in the painful
exercise of His ministry. There He is treated as a Sa-
maritan, and possessed by the devil : Here they take up
stones to stone Him. It is thus that the Son of God has
passed all the time of His mortal life ; continually ex-
posed to the most obstinate contradiction, finding only
hearts insensible to His kindness, and rebellious to the
truths which He announced to them ; yet never did He
allow the smallest sign of impatience, or the least com-
plaint to escape Him.
THE DISGUSTS ACCOMPAJSTIJ^TG VIRTUE. 79
And we, my brethren, we, his members and his disci
pies ; alas ! the least disgust, the smallest contradiction
we experience in the practice of virtue, shocks our delica-
cy ; from the moment we cease to relish those attractions,
and that sensibility, which soften every thing to be found
painful in duty, there is nothing but complaint and mur-
mers ; troubled, discouraged, we are tempted almost to
abandon God, and to return to the w orld, as a more a-
greeable and indulgent master. In a word, we would
wish to find nothing in the service of God but pleasure
and consolation.
But our divine Master, in calling us to His service,
has He not declared in express terms, that the kingdom
of heaven is only to be gained by conquest ; and that
none but those who do violence to themselves can force
their way to it? And what do these words signify ? un-
less, that entering into the service of God, we are not to
promise ourselves, that we shall always find in it a cer-
tain sweetness and relish, which deprives it of all pain,
and causes it to be loved ; on the contrary, it is almost
certain, that in it we shall experience disgust and con-
tradiction which will exercise our patience, and put our
fidelity to frequeot trials ; that we shall often feel the
weight of the yoke, without feeling the comfort of grace,
which renders it light and easy ; because piety is essen-
tially opposite to the gratification of our former tastes
and original inclinations, for which we always preserve
some unhappy remains of tenderness, and which we can-
not mortify, without making the heart sufiPer ; that be-
sides, we shall have to undergo the eternal caprices of
an inconstant and volatile heart, so difficult to fix, that
without reason or foundation, it is disgusted in a moment
go SEBMO.V III.
with what it formerly most loved. Behold, my brethren,
what we OLiii;ht to expect, when we embrace the cause
of virtue. This is the time of combat and trials ; peace
and felicity are only for heaven ; but notwithstanding
this, 1 say that it is unjust to form, from the disa-
greeable circumstances which may accompany virtue in
this life, a pretext either to abandon God when we have
begun to serve Him, or to be afraid to serve Him when
we have begun to know Him.
These are my reasons : In the first place, because disa-
greeable occurrences are inevitable in this life; secondly,
because those of piety are not so bitter as we imagine
them to be,; thirdly, because they are less so than those
of the ^^ orld ; fourthly, Jjecause, were they equally so,
they yet possess resources which those of the world have
not. Let us investigate these edifying truths, and im-
plore the assistance of divine Grrace towards their pro-
per cxplaiiation.
Heflection I. 1 say, in the first place, because dis-
agreeable circumstances are inevitable in this life. Alas 1
we complain, that the service of God disgusts us ; but
such is the condition of this miserable life. Man, born
fully to enjoy God, cannot l)e happy here below, where
he can never but imperfectly possess Him ; disgust is a
necessary consequence of the inquietude of a heart which
is out of its place, and is unable to find it on the earth ;
which seeks to attach itself, but cannot with all the crea-
ted beings which surround it ; which, disgusted with eve-
ry thing else, attaches itself to God ; but being unable to
possess Him as fully as it is capable of doing, feels al-
ways that something is wanting to its happiness ; disqui--
TJΠDISGUSTS ACCOMPAJ\rriJVG VIRTUE. 81
6ts itself, in order to attain it, but can never completely
reach it here ; finds in virtue almost the same void and
the same disgust it had found in sin ; because, to what-
ever degree of grace it may be exalted, there still re-
mains much to accomplish before it can arrive at that
fulness of righteousness and love, which will possess our
whole heart ; fill all our desires ; extinguish all our
passions ; occupy all our thoughts ; and which we can
never find but in heaven.
Were it possible to be happy in this world, we should
undoubtedly be so in serving God, because grace calms
our passions, moderates our desires, consoles our suffer-
ings, and gives us a foretaste of that perfect happiness
we expect, and which we shall not enjoy but in a bles-
sed immortality. Of all the situations in w hich man can
find himself in this life, that of righteousness iiiidoubted-
ly brings him nearest to felicity ; but as it always leaves
him in the path which conducts to it, it leaves him like-
wise still uneasy, and in one sense miserable.
We are therefore unjust to complain of the disagreea-
ble circumstances which accompany virtue. Did the
world make its followers happy, we should then have
reason to be dissatisfied at not being so in the service of
Grod. We might then accuse Him of using His servants
ill ; of depriving them of an happiness which is due to
tiiem alone ; that far from attracting, he rejects them ;
and that the world is preferable to him, as a more con-
soling and faithful master. But examine all stations ;
interrogate all sinners ; consult in rotation the partizans
of all the different pleasures which the world promises,
and the different passions w hich it inspires ; the envious,
the ambitious, the voluptuous, the indolent, tlie revenge,-
Vol. L 9
S^ s E li M u jX in.
ful ; none are bnppy ; each complains ; no one is in his
place ; every condition lias its inconveniences ; and sor-
rows are attached to every station in life. The world
is the habitation of the discontented ; and the distaste
which accompanies Tirtue, is much more a consequence
of the condition of this mortal life, than of any imper-
fection in virtue itself.
Besides, the Almighty has His reasons for leaving the
most upright souls below in a state, in some respects, al-
ways violent and disagreeable to nature : By that. He
wishes to disgust us with this miserable life ; to make
us long for our deliverance, and for that immortal coun-
try, where nothing shall be w anting to our happiness.
' I feel within me' (says the apostle) ' a fatal law in
' opposition to the law of God ; the good that I would,
^ I do not ; but the evil which I w ould not, that 1 do.
^ Now, if I do that I would not, it is no more I that do
^ it, but sin that dwelleth in me. I find then a law, that
^ when I would do good, evil is present with me. For
< I delight in the law of God after the inward man ; but
' 1 see another law in my members, warring against the
' law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity to the
' law of sin which is in my members. O wretched man
' that I am ! who shall deliver me from the body of this
' death?' — Behold the most natural effect which the dis-
gust attached to virtue ought to operate in a Christian
heart : Hatred of ourselves 5 contempt of the present
life ; a desire for eternal riclies ; an eager anxiety to go
and enjoy God, and to be delivered from all tlie mise-
ries inseparable from this mortal life.
Besides, were vn*tue always to be accompanied with
perceptible consolations : did it continually form for man
THE DISGUSTS ACCOMPAJ^YIKG VIRTUE, 8tî
an happy and tranquil state in this world, it would be-
come a temporal recompense; in devoting ourselves to
God, we should no longer seek the good of faith, but the
consolations of self-love; we would seek ourselves, while
pretending to seek God ; we would propose to ourselves
in virtue, that conscious tranquillity, in which it places
the heart, by delivering it from those violent and restless
passions which tear it continually, rather than the obser-
vance of the rules and the duties which the law of God
imposes on us. The Lord would then have only mer-
cenary and interested worshippers, who would come, not
to carry His yoke, but to repose themselves under the sha-
dow of His voice ; workmen, who would offer themselves,
not so much to labour in His vineyard, and support the
fatigues of the day, and the oppression of the heat, as
in order to taste in;tranquillity the fruits ; servants, who,
far from improving their talent for the use of their mas-
ter, would turn it to their own benefit, and employ it on-
ly for their own advantage.
The upright live by faith ; now faith hopes, but enjoys
not in this world ; all is yet to come for Christians ; their
country, their riches, their pleasures, their inlieritance,
their kingdom ; the present is not for them. This is the
time of tribulation and affliction ; This is a place of ex-
ile, and a foreign country, where tears and sighs become
the only consolation of the faithful ; it is unreasonable to
expect delights in a place where every thing recalls the
remembrance of our miseries ; where every thing pre-
sents new dangers to us ; where we live surrounded by
rocks ; where we are a prey to a thousand enemies ;
where every step endangers our destruction ; where ev-
«ry day is marked by some new infidelity : where, de-
9^ . SERMOJK' It/.
livered up to ourselves, and without the assistance of
Heaven, we cio nothing but evil ; where we spread the
corruption of our heart over the small portion, even of
ffood, which grace enables us to accomplish ; it is unrea-
sonable, I say, to seek felicity and human consolation, in
a resilience so melancholy and disagreeable to the chil-
dren of God. The days of our mourning and sadness
are in this world ; those of peace and joy will come af-
terwards : If, by abandoning God, we could acquire re-
al happiness, our inconstancy would seem at least to
have an excuse ; but, as I have already said, the world
has its disagreeable occurrences as well as virtue ; by
changing our master, we only change our punishment ;
in diversifying our passions, we only diversify our sor-
rows. The world has more smiling aspects, I confess,
than virtue ; but every where, the reality is only trouble
and vexation of spirit ; and since cares are inevitable in
this li^e, and we must be disgusted, either by the world
or by virtue, can we balatice for a moment? Is it not
preferable to suffer meritoriously than to suff*er in vain,
and be able to place our sufferings only amongst the
number of our crimes ? First truth : Causes of dissatis-
faction are inevitable in this life.
B.EFLFXT. II. But I say, in the second place, that
those arising from piety are not so bitter as we represent
them to ourselves.
For, my brethren, although we agree that the king-
dom of God is liable to violence; that .Tesus Christ is
come, in order to make separations and reirenchmcnts
which cost much to our nature ; that the period of the
present life is the time of the birth of the new man. and
fUE niSGVSrS JCCOMPAXYUy^C VIRTUE. g^
ahvays followed by pain and sorrow ; and tliat in order
to reconcile ourselves to God, we mnsi begin by waging
a cruel v»'ar against ourselves ; yet it does not follow,
that the lot of a soul who serves the Lord is to be piti
ed, and that the distastes which accompany virtue, are so
bitter as the world represents. Virtue has only tlie pre-
judices of the senses, and of the passions against it : it
has nothing melancholy but the first glance ; and its bit-
terness is not such as to induce us to fly from it as in-
supportable and wretched.
For, in the first place, we are sheltered in it from tlie
disgusts of the world and the passions ; and were virtue
to possess only the single advantage of placing us safe
from the tempests of the passions ; from phrenzy, jeal-
ousy, suspicion, and bitterness of heart ; from the void
of a worldly life ; when, by turning to God, we should
gain only our freedom from the yoke of the world ; our
being placed above the reach of its hopes, of its revolu-
tions, troubles, and eternal changes ; the becoming mas-
ters of our own hearts, and being dependent on none but
ourselves ; our having none but God to account with ;
our no longer fatiguing ourselves in vain, by running
after phantoms, which continually elude our grasp;
Alas ! the lot of a just soul would always be worthy of
envy ; whatever might be the bitter circumstances ac-
companying virtue, they would still be a thousand times
more supportable than the pleasures of the world ; and
to mourn with the people of God, would be infinitely
preferable to participating in the insipid and childish
pleasures of the children of the age.
Secondly, If virtue does not protect us from the afllic-
tions and disgraces inevitable upon this earth, it at least
softens their asperity ; it makes our heart submissive to
God ; it makes us kiss the hand which is raised up a-
gainst us; it discovers in the blows with which the Lord
afflicts us, either a cure for our passions, or the just pun-
ishment of our crimes. And were virtue to have only
the privilege of diminishing our griefs, by diminishing
our attachments; of rendering us less feeling to our loss-
es, by gradually detaching us from all the objects which
we may one day lose ; of preparing our soul for affliction,
by keeping it continually submissive to God ; were vir-
tue to possess this consolation alone ; Alas ! ought we to
lament and complain of any bitterness which attends it ?
What more can be desired in this miserable life^, where
almost all our days are distinguished by new afflictions
and adversities ; where every thing escapes our grasp ;
where our relations, friends, and protectors, are every
moment snatched from us, and continually falling around
us ; where our fortune lias no hold, but changes its ap-
pearance every day — Alas ! w^hat more can be desired
than a situation which consoles us on these events ; sup-
ports us in these storms ; calms us in these agitations ;
and which, in the eternal changes which take place here
below, leaves us at least always the same?
Thirdly, The inconveniences and disgust which revolt
us so strongly against virtue, in reality, arise only from
repressing the passions which render us unhappy, and
are the source of all our pains ; they are remedies a lit-
tle grievous, to be sure, but they serve to cure evils which
are infinitely more so ; it is a constraint which fatigues
us, but which, in fatiguing, delivers us from a slavery
which weighed us down ; it is a bitterness which morti-
fies the passions, but which., in mortifying, weakens and
THE DISGUSTS ACCOMPAJVYUSTG llUrUi:. ^
calms tl\em ; it is a sword which pierces the heart to the
quick ; but w hich makes tiie corrapted and defiled mat-
ter to flow out from it ; in so much,, that in the very mo
ment of the wound's greatest agony, we experience the
comfort and certainty of a cure : These are maxims which
shock our nature and inclinations ; but which, in revol-
ting, recal them to order and rule. Thus, the bitterness
and the thorns of virtue have always at least a present
utility, which makes amends for their harshness ; in dis-
gusting, they purify us ; in probing, they cure us ; in pain-
ing, they calm us. These are not like the disgusts of
the world, of which nothing remains to us, but the bit.
terness of those fatigues, of those constranits which our
passions impose on us ; and whose only fruit is, that of
augmenting our miseries, by fortifying our iniquitous
passions : These are not the worldly troubles which
lead to nothing, are of no value, and frequently serve on-
ly to render us hateful to those whom we would wish to
please ; which remove to a greater distance from us, the
favours we wish to merit by them ; which always leave
us our hatreds, our desires, our inquietudes, and our
pains : These are troubles which advance the woi^k of
our sanctification ; which by degrees destroy within us
the work of sin ; which perfect, which adorn us, which
add every day a new splendour to our soul, a new solid-
ity to our virtues, a new force to our faith, a new facility
to our approaches towards salvation^ a new animation
to our good desires, and which carry w ith them the fruit
that rewards and consoles us.
I do not add, that the source of our troubles is in our-
selves rather than in virtue ; that it is our passions which
g-ive birth to our repugnance ; that virtue ha;s nothing in
88 SEiiMo.y III
itself but what is amiable ; that were our hearts uot de-
praved through love to the fleshy we would find uothing
sweet and consoling but the pleasures of innocence ; that
we are born for virtue and righteousness; that this ought to
be our first inclina^tiou, as it is our first destiny ; and if we
find different dispositions within us^ at least we have not
virtue^ but ourselves to blame. I could add, that per-
haps it is the peculiar character of our heart, which cre-
ates for us so much bitterness in the detail of a Christian
life ; that being born perhaps with more lively passions,
and a heart more sensiî)le to the w^orld and to pleasure,
virtue appears more melancholy and insupportable to us;
that not finding in the service of God the same attraction
which we have found in the w orld, our heart, accustomed
to lively and animated pleasures, is no longer capable
of reconciling itself to the supposed dreariness of a Chris-
tian life ; that the endless dissipation in w hich we have
lived, renders the uniformity of duties more irksome to
us ; the agitation of parties and pleasures, makes retire-
ment more disgusting ; our total submission to the pas-
sions, makes prayer more painful ; the frivolous maxims
with w hich our minds are occupied, make the truths of
faith more insipid and disagieeable; that our mind being
filled with only vain things, with fabulous reading, if
nothing worse, with chimerical adventures, and theatri-
cal phantoms, is no longer capable of relishing any thing
solid ; that never having accustomed ourselves to any
thing serious, it is rare that the seriousness of piety does
not disgust us, and that we find God to our taste, if 1
dare speak in this manner, we who have never relish-
ed any thing but the world and its vain hoj^es. This
being the case, what happiness it is ^vhen we bring hack
THE DISGUSTS ACCOMPAj\'YIJ\rG VIRTUE. 89
to virtue, a heart yet uncorrupted by the world! What
delight, to enter into the service of God with happy in-
clinations, and some remains of our original innocence \
What happiness when we begin early to know the Lord;
when we return to Him in that first season of our life,
when the world has not yet made such profound and in-
effaceable impressions; when the passions, still in their
growth, bend easily towards good, and make virtue, as
it were, a natural object of inclination™- What happiness,
when we have been able to put an early check upon our
heart ; Avhen we have accustomed it to bear the yoke of
the Lord ; and when we have arrested, almost in their in-
fancy, passions, whicli render us miserable in our guilt,
and which likewise occasion all the bitterness we feel
In virtue ! How many inconveniences, how many pangs
does it prevent 1 How many consolations does it pre-
pare Î How many comforts spread through the rest of
life — and what a difference, for the ease and tranquillity
of our future years, betv/een days the first of which hav^
been pure, and those which, infected in their source,
have experienced a fatal bitterness, which has blasted
all their joys, and spread itself through the remainder of
their career ! It is ourselves alone, says St Augustin,
who render virtue disagreeable ; and we are wrong to
complain of an evil, in which we ourselves have such a
share, or to attribute faults to virtue, which are our own
handy-work.
But granting these reflections to have even less solid-
ity ; were it even true, that we are not the first and ori-
ginal cause of our distaste for virtue ; it is at least incon-
testable, that the longer we defer our return to God, the
more invincible do we render that distaste which sepa-
Vol. I. 10
90 sLJiMox m
rates ii>i IVoiii Him; tliat Ihe move ue shrink and di.aw
back, the more do we fortify that repugnance within us
to virtue; that if the Christian life offers at present only
melancholy and tedious duties, they will appear more
insupportable, in proportion as we grow old in the ways
of the world, and in our taste for its iniquitous pleasures.
Could the delay of our conversion sweeten the bitter and
painful portion of virtue, by holding out longer against
grace ; could w c obtain a more favourable composition,
as I may say, and as an article of it, stipulate, that pie-
ty should afterwards be presented to us with more
charms and graces, and with conditions more agreeable
and flattering — alas ! whatever risks we may run by de-
ferring it, the hopes of softening our pains and sufferings
might serve in some measure to excuse our delays. But
delay only prepares neAV sorrows for us ; the more wc
accustom our heart to the world, the more do we render
it unfit for virtue : It is no longer, says the prophet, but
a polluted vase, to which the passions we have allow-
ed to settle in it, have communicated a taste and smell
of death, which generally last the remainder of life.
Thus, m^ brethren, w hen, after a long course of crimes
and deeply-rooted passions, we must return to God, what
obstacles do not these frightful dispositions present!
"What insensibility towards good do we not find within
X)urselves ! Those hearts, which the Avorld has always
engrossed, and which afterwards wish to consecrate to
God the remains of a carnal life; what a buckler of
brass, says the prophet, do they not oppose to grace !
What hardness of heart to the holy consolations of vir-
tue ! They may find it just ; but ik is impossible, they
say, to find it amiable : They may return to God ; but
TUE DISGUSTS ACCOMPAjMYLXG VIRTUE 91
they enjoy Him no more : They may nourish themselves
with the truth ; but it presents nothing to them but the
bread of tribulation and bitterness : They may seek the
kingdom of God, and the treasures of the gospel ; but it
is like unfortunate slaves^ condemned to search for gold
in the boAvels of the earthy and to waste their strength
against the opposing rocks : They may attempt to draw
water from the wells of Jacob ; but they can only reap
the toil ; they can never partake of those comforts and
consolations which bear peace and refreshment to the
soul : They w ish to draw near to God. yet every thing
separates them from Him ; they wish to fly from the
world^ yet w herever they go^ they carry it with them in
til eh' heart : They seek the society of virtuous people,
yet in their company they find a weariness^ and a mel-
ancholy stiiFness, which disgusts them with piety itself :
They apply themselves to holy books ; and, alas ! it is
onlj^ a respect to decency \A'hich supports their patience.
It appears, that in virtue, they act a borrowed charac-
ter, so little does it become them, and so much does their
part constrain and tire them ; and although, in reality,
they seek salvation, yet there appears a something so
foreign and constrained in their efforts, that we believe
they only assume the semblance of it ; and that feeling
themselves not born for virtue, they wish at least to give
themselves the appearance of it.
Disgust and weariness should not, therefore, drive us
from virtue ; since, in proportion as we retire from it, they
become every day more violent and insupportable. But
candidly, my brethren, is it for us to reproach our God,
that we become fatigued in His service ? Ah ! did our
slaves and domesticks make us the same reproach 5 had
they to lament tLe weariness they experience in our ser-
vice^ they ^youl(l certainly he entitled to complain of it :
Our eternal humours, from wliich they suffer so much ;
our fancies and caprices, to which they must accommo-
date themselves ; our hours and moments, to which they
must subject themselves ; our pleasures and tastes, to
which they must sacrifice their rest and liberty ; our in-
dolence, which alone costs them so much, makes them
endure so much weariness, and pass so many melancholy
moments, without our even deigning to observe it ; they
undoubtedly would be entitled to complain of their cruel
situation and sufferings.
Nevertheless, should tliey venture to say, that they
become fatigued in our service ; that they reap not the
smallest satisfaction from it ; that they feel no regard for
us, and tliat every service they perform, is disgusting to
a degree scarcely supportable — Alas ! we would regard
them as fools ; we would consider them too happy in
having to support our humours and caprices ; we would
think them sufficiently honoured, by being permitted to
be near us ; and fully recompensed for all their fatigues.
Ah, my brethren ! and God — does He not sufficiently
recompense those who serve Him, that they should sup-
port any little disgust or w eariness w hich may be found
in His service ? Are we not still too happy, by His ac-
ceptance of our services, in spite of the inconveniencies
which render them insipd and languid? Does He not
sufficiently load us with blessings, to be entitled to ex-
act our sufferance of a few slight sorrows for His sake?
Does He not promise us still more, sufficiently precious
to sweeten the tritlins; dissiusts attached to the fulfilment
of His ordinances ? Must He not find it strange, that vile
THE DISGUSTS ACCOJyiP.iJSrLYG VlllTUE. 93
rVeatures, who hold all from Him, who exist only
through Him, and who expect all from Him, should
complain of dislike to His service ? That worms of tlic
earth, whose only hoast is the honour of belonging to
Him, dare complain of feeling no relish for Him, and
tliat it is both melancholy and Aveaiisome to serve and to
he faithful to Him ? Is He, then, a master lilce us ; fan»
ciful, intolerant, indolent, entirely occupied with Him-
self, and who seeks only to render Himself happy, at
the expense of the peace and comfort of those who
serve him? Unjust that we are! We dare offer re-
proaches to the Almighty, which we would regard as
outrages upon ourselves, from the mouths of our slaves!
Second Truth : The disgusis which accompany vir-^
tue^ are not so bitter as we represent them to ourselves.
Reflect. HI. But even were they so, 1 have said,
in the third place, that they would still be infinitely less
than those of the w orld : And it is here, my brethren,
that the testimony of the world itself, and the self-expe-
rience of worldly souls, answer every purpose of a proof.
For if you continue in the ways of the world, and of the
passions, what is your whole life but a constant scene of
weariness, where, by diversifying your pleasures, you
only diversify your disgust and uneasiness ? What is it
but an eternal void, where you are a burden to yourself?
What is it but a pompous circulation of duties, atten-
tions, ceremonies, amusements, and trifles ; which, inces-
santly revolving, possess one single advantage, that of
unpleasantly filling up moments which hang heavy up-
on you, and whicli you know not otherwise to employ ?
94< ' sermojy ill
What is your life but a flux and reflux of desires, ha-
treds, chagrins, jealousies, and hopes, which poison all
your pleasures, and are the cause that, surrounded by
every thing which ought to ensure your happiness, you
cannot succeed in being contented with yourselves ?
What comparison is there between the phrenzies of
the passions^ the chagrin of a marked neglect, the sen.
sibility of unkindness ; and the trifling sorrow^s of virtue ?
What comparison between the unceasing anxieties of
ambition, the fatigues and toils of pretensions and ex-
pectancies, the pains to ensure success, the exertions and
submissions necessary to please, the cares, uneasinesses,
and agitations, in order to exalt ourselves ; and the tri-
fling difficulties which assure to us the kingdom of hea-
ven? What comparison between the frightful pangs of
the conscience, that hidden worm, which incessantly
gnaws us, that sadness of guilt, which undermines and
reduces us, that weight of iniquity, w hich overwhelms
us, that internal sword, which pierces us to the quick,
which we know not how to draw forth, but carry with
us Avherever we go ; and the pleasing sorrow of the pen-
itence which operates salvation ? My God ! can we com-
plain of Thee, after knowing the world ? Can Thy yoke
appear grievous, after quitting that of the passions? And
the thorns of Thy cross, are they not flowers, w hen com-
pared to those which the ways of iniquity and the world
have sow^n?
Thus, every day, we hear the worshipers of the w orld
decry the w orld they serve ; complain with the utmost
dissatisfaction of their lot ; utter the keenest invectives
against its injustice and abuses ; censure, condemn, and
despise it ; but find me, if you can, any truly pious souls,
THE DISGUSTS JCCOJilP^ATIJVG VIRTUE. 9;i
who send forth invectives against virtue — who condemn
or despise it ; and who detest their lot in being embark^
cd on a voyage^ so full of chagrin and bitterness. The
world itself continually envies the destiny of the virtu-
ous, and acknowledges that none are happy but the up-
right; but find me a truly pious soul, who envies the des-
tiny of the world ; who proclaims, that none are happy
but its partisans ; who admires the wisdom of their choice,
and regards his own condition as the most miserable and
the most foolish: What shall I say? AYe frequently
see sinners, who, through despair and disgust at the
world, have fled to opposite extremes ; lose rest, health,
reason, and life ; fall into a state of horror, and the black-
est melancholy, and no longer regard life but as the
greatest torment. But where are the righteous, whom
the disgusts which accompany virtue have thrown into
such dreadful extremities? They sometimes complain of
their sorrows ; but they still prefer them to the pleasures
of the passions : Virtue, it is true, may sometimes ap-
pear melancholy and unpleasing to them ; but with all
her sadness, they love her much move than guilt : They
would wish a few more apparent supports and consola-
tions from the Father of mercies; but they detest those
of the world : They suffer ; but the same hand which
tries, supports them, and they are not temptetl beyond
their strength : They feel what you call the weight of
the yoke of Jesus Christ ; but in remembering \\\q, load
of iniquity, under which they had so long groaned, they
find their present lot happy, and the compaiison calms
and comforts them.
In reality, my brethren, in the first place, the violence
which we do to ourselves, is much more agreeable than
96 s EU MO jv m.
that wliicli cornes from without, and happens in spite of
us. Now, the troubles of virtue are at least voluntary :
They are crosses which we choose from reason, and
impose on ourselves from duty : They are often bitter,
but we are consoled by the reflection of having chosen
them. But tlie disgusts of the world are forced crosses,
which come without our being consulted : It is a hateful
yoke, whicli is imposed on us against our will : We
wish it not; we detest it; yet nevertheless we must drink
all the bitterness of the cup. In virtue, we only suffer,
because it is our inclination to suffer ; In the world, we
suffer so much the more, in proportion as we wish it less,
and as our inclinations are inimical to our sufferings.
Secondly, The disgusts accompanying virtue are a
burden only to indolence and laziness ; they are crosses,
bitter only to the senses ; But tlie disgust» of the world ;
all ! they pierce to the quick ; they mortify all the pas-
sions ; they humble pride ; pull down vanity ; create
envy ; mortify ambition ; and none of our feelings escape
the influence of their sadness and bitterness.
Thirdly, Those of virtue are perceptible only in their
first operation : The first efforts cost us much ; the se-
quel softens and tranquillizes them : the passions, which
are generally the occasion of any disgust at virtue, have
this particular quality, that the more we repress them,
the more tractable they become; the opposition we
make to them, gradually calms the heart, and leaves us
less to suffer from those to come ; but the disgusts of the
world are always new ; as they always find in us the
same passions, they always leave us the same bitterness ;
those which have gone before, only render those that
follow more insupportable.
THE DISGUSTS AGCOMPAJVFIJVG VIRTUE. 97
In a word, the disgusts of the world inflame our pas-
sions, and consequently increase our sufferings ; those
of virtue repress them, and by this means gradually es-
tablish peace and tranquillity in our soul.
Fourthly, The disgusts of the world happen to those
who most faithfully serve it : It does not treat them l)et-
ter, because they are more devoted to its cause, and more
zealous for its abuses ; on the contrary, the hearts most
ardent for the world, are almost always those which ex-
perience the largest share of its mortifications, because
they feel more sensibly its neglect and injustice : Their
ardour for it, is the source of all their uneasiness. But
with God, we have only our indifference to dread ; for
the disgusts wJiich may accompany virtue, in general,
have only relaxation and idleness for the foundation ; the
more our ardour for the Lord increases, the more do our
disgusts diminish ; the more our zeal inflames, the more
does our repugnance weaken ; the more we serve Him
with fidelity, the more charms and consolation do we find
in His service : It is by relaxing, that we render our
duties disagreeable ; it is by lessening our fervour, that
we add a new weight to our yoke ; and if, in spite of our
fidelity, disgusts continue, they are then trials, and
not punishments ; it is not that consolations are refused,
it is that a new occasion for the display of merit is pre-
pared for us ; it is not an irritated Grod, who shuts His
heart to us, it is a merciful God, who purifies our own ;
it is not a discontented master, who suspends his favours,
it is a jealous Lord, who wishes to prove our love ; our
komages are not rejected, our submissions and services
are only anticipated ; it is not meant to repulse, but to
assure to us the price of our sufferings, by rejecting,
every thing which might still mingle the man witli
Vol. I. 11
98 sEiiMOj^' m.
God, ourselves with grace, human supports with the
î;ifts of Heaven, and the riches of faith with the conso^
lations of self-love. Behold, my brethren, the last truth
with which I shall terminate this discourse : Not only
the disgusts accompanying virtue, are less bitter than
those of the world, but tliey likewise possess resources
which those of the world have not.
Reflect. IV. 1 say resources ; alas ! my brethren,
Ave find none but in virtue. The world wounds the
heart, but it furnishes no remedies : It has its chagrins,
but nothing to comfort them : It is full of disgusts and
bitterness, but we find no resources in it. But in virtue,
there is no sorrow which lias not its consolation ; and if
in it Ave find repugnance and disgust, we find likewise
a thousand resources which soothe them.
In the first place. Peace of heart, and the testimony of
the conscience. What luxury, to be at peace with our-
selves ; no longer to carry within us that importunate and
corroding w^orm, w hich pursued us every where ; no lon-
ger to be racked by an eternal remorse, which poisoned
every comfort of life : In a word, to be delivered from
iniquity ! The senses may still suffer from the sorrows
of virtue, but the heart at least is tranquil.
Secondly, The certainty that our sufferings are not
lost ; that our sorrows become a new occasion for the dis-
play of merit ; that the repugnance we feel, in preparing
for us new sacrifices, secures an additional claim to the
promises of faith : that were virtue to cost us less, it w ould
likewise bciir an inferior price in the sight of God ; and
that He only renders the road so difficult, in order to ren-
der our crown more brilliant and glorious.
Tiiirdly, Submission to the will of God, who has
THE DISGUSTS ACCOMPJJVFIJK'G VIRTUE. QQ
His reasons for refusing to us the visible consolations of
viitue ; whose wisdom consults our interest more thau
our passions 5 and who has preferred bringing us to
Himself by a less agreeable road, because it is a more
secure one.
Fourthly, The favours with which He accompanies
our sorrows ; which sustain our faith at the same time
that our crosses lower self-love ; which fortify our heart
in truth; at the same time that our senses are disgusted
with it ; which make our mind prompt and fervent, al-
though the flesh is weak and feeble ; in so much, that He
renders our virtue the more solid, as to us it seems more
melancholy and painful.
Fifthly, The external succours of piety, whicli are so
many new resources in our faintings and thirst ; the holy
mysteries, where Jesus Christ, Himself the comforter of
faitliful souls, comes to console our heart : the truths of
the divine writings, which promise nothing in this world
to the upright but tribulation and tears, calm our fears,
by informing us, that our pleasures are to come, and
that the sufferings which discourage us, far from making
us distrust our virtue, ought to render our hope more an-
imated and certain : In a word, the history of the saints,
who have undergone the same crosses and trials, evmcc,
that we have so much the less reason to complain,
as souls so infinitely more pious than we, liave experi-
enced the same lot ; that such has almost always been
the conduct of God towards His servants ; and that if
any thing in this life can prove His love towards us, it
is that of His leading us by the same path that.He did
the saints, and treating us in this world in the same
manner as He did the upright.
Sixthly, The tranquillity of the life, and the uniform-
100 sEJiMOjx m.
ity of the duties, which liave succeeded to the phrcnzie?
of the passions, and the tumult of a worldly life ; which
liave provided for us much more happy and peaceful
days than those we had ever passed in the midst of dis-
sipation ; and which, though they still leave us some-
thing to suffer, yet occasion us to enjoy a more tranquil
and supportable lot.
Lastly, Faith, which l)rings eternity nearer to us ;
which discovers to us the insignificancy of worklly af-
fairs ; which causes us to see that we approach the liap-
py term ; that the present life is but a rapid instant, and
consequently, that our sufferings cannot endure long ;
but that this fleeting moment of tribulation, assures to us
a glorious and immortal futurity, which will endure as
Ions: as God Himself. What resources for a faithful
heart ! What disproportion between the sufferings of
virtue and those of guilt ! It is in order to make us feel
the difference, that God often permits the world to pos-
sess us for a time ; that in youth we deliver ourselves
up to the sway of the passions ; on purpose, that wlien
He afterward recalls us to Himself, we may know by ex-
perience how^ much more easy is His yoke than that of
the worhl. I will permit, says He in the Scriptures,
that My people serve the nations of the earth for some
time, that they allow themselves to be seduced by their
profane superstitions, in order that they may know the
difference between My service and the service of the
kings of the earth ; and that they may feel how much
more easy is My yoke than the servitude of men.
Happy the souls, who, in order to be undeceived, have
had no occasion for this experience, and w ho have not
so dearly bought the knowledge of this world's vanity,
and the melancholy lot of iniquitous passions. Alas !
THE DISGUSTS ACCOMFAJ^YIXG VIRTVE. lOi
since in the end we must be undeceived^ and must aban-
don and despise it; since the day will come, when we
shall find it frivolous, disgusting, and insupportable:
when of all its foolish joys, there shall no longer remain
to usj but the cruel remorse of having yielded to them,
the shame of having followed them, the obstacles to good
which they will have left in our heart ; why not antici-
pate and prevent such melancholy regrets ? Why not
do to-day, what we ourselves allow must one day be
done ? Why wait till the world has made such deep
wounds in our heart, to run afterwards to remedies, which
cannot re-establish us without greater pain, and costing
us doubly dear? We complain of some slight disgusts
which accom"pany virtue ; but alas ! the first believers,
who, to the maxims of the gospel, sacrificed their riches,
reputation, and life ; who ran to the scaffolds to acknow-
ledge Jesus Christ ; who passed their days in chains, in
prisons, in shame and in suffering, and to whom it cost
so much to serve Jesus Christ ; did they complain of the
bitterness of His service ? Did they reproach Him with
rendering unhappy those wlio served Him ? Ah ! they
glorified themselves in their tribulation ; they preferred
shame and disgrace with Jesus Christ, to all the vain
pleasures of Egypt ; they reckoned as nothing, wheels,
fires, and every instrument of torture, in the hope of a
blessed immortality, which would amply recompense
their present sufferings : In the midst of torments, they
chanted hymns ; and regarded as a gain, the loss of all,
for the interest of their Master. W liat a life, in the eyes
of the flesh, is that of these unfortunate men, proscribed,
persecuted, driven from their country, having only dens
and caverns for their habitation, abhorred by the uni-
verse, become execral)le to their friends, their fellow-citi-
lOâ seumojY m.
zens^ and (lieir relations ! Tliey esteemed themselves
happy in bclonginj^ to Jesus Christ ; in their opinion,
they could not too dearly purchase the glory of being
His disciples, and the consolation of claiming His prom-
ises. And we, my l^retlircn in the midst of too many of
the conveniences of life ; surrounded by too much abun-
dance, prosperity, and worldly glory ; finding, perhaps
for our misfortune, the recompense of viriue, in the
applauses of tlie world, which cannot restrain itself from
esteeming worth ; in the midst of our relations, our chil-
dren, and our friends, we complain, that it costs us too
much to serve Jesus Christ ; we murmur against the tri-
fling bitterness we experience in virtue ; we almost per-
suade ourselves, that Ood requires too much of his crea-
tures : Ah ! when the comparison shall one day be made
between these trifling difficulties \^hich we exaggerate so
much ; and the crosses, the wheels, the fires, and all the
tortures of the martyrs ; the austerities of the anchorites ;
the fasts, the tears and suiferings of so many boly peni-
tents; alas ! we shall then blush to find ourselves almost
single before Jesus Christ ; Ave, who have suffered no-
thing for Him : to wliom His kingdom has cost nothing :
and who individually bearing before His tribunal more
inicpiities than a number of saints together, cannot, how-
ever, in assembling all our works of piety, compare them
united, to a single instance of their exertions.
Let us cease, therefore, to complain of God, since He
has so many reasons to complain of us ; let us serve
Him, as He w ishes to be served by us ; if He softens
our yoke, let us bless His goodness, which prepares
these consolations or our weakness ; if He makes us feel
the whole extent of its weight, let us still esteem our-
sjiclves happy that He deigns^ at that price^ to accept of
THE DISGUSTS ACCOMPANYIJ^G VIRTUE. 103
our works and homage. With equal gratitude^ let us
receive from His hand consolation or affliction, since
every thing wliicli proceeds from Him alike conducts us
to Him. Let us learn to be, like the Apostle, in want or
abundance, provided we belong to Jesus Christ ; the es-
sential part is not to serve Him with pleasure, it is to
serve him with fidelity. In reality, my brethren, in spite
of all the disgust or repugnance which may accompany
virtue, there is no real or true pleasure but in serving
God ; there is no solid consolation to be reaped, but by
attaching ourselves to him. No, said the sage. It is still
better to feed upon bread of wormwood and gall,
with the fear of the Lord, than to live in the midst of
pleasures and profane joys, under the lash of His wrath
and indignation. Alas ! of what pleasure can we be ca-
pable, when we are the enemies of God ? What pleas-
ure can we taste, when we bear in our heart only the
anguish and bitterness of guilt ? No, says the sage once
more. The fear of God can alone charm our weariness ;
soften our moments of melancholy ; soothe our endless
anguish ; and enable us to find a certain degree of sweet-
ness, even in the evils incident to our nature. It is that
which renders retirement sweet, and enables us to enjoy
repose, far from the world and its amusements : It is
that which makes days pass quickly, and fills with
peace and tranquillity every moment ; and though ap-
parently it allows us more leisure than a worldly life,
yet it leaves a much smaller portion to weariness.
Great God ! what honour does not the v; orld uninten-
tionally pay to Thy service! What an affecting eulogi-
um on the destiny of the upright is the lot of sinners !
How well, my God, Thou knowest to extort glory and
praise from even Thy enemies ! and how little excuse
104 SERMOjV 111.
Thou leavest to those souls who depart from Thy paths,
since, in order to draw them to virtue^ Thou makest a
means even of their crimes ; and employest their wants
to recall them to Thy eternal mercies.
Now to God, &c.
( 105 )
SERMON IV.
THE UNCERTAINTY OF RIGHTEOUS
NESS IN A STATE OF LUKE-
VVARMNESS.
Luke iv. 38.
And he rose out of the Synagogue, and entered info Si-
mon^s house : and Shnon^s wife's mother was taken
with a great fever ; and they besought him for her.
Nothing more naturally represents the situation of a
languid and lukewarm soul, than the state of infirmity
in which the gospel here describes the mother-in-law of
Peter. It may be said, that coldness and indolence
in the paths of God, though otherwise accompanied
with a life free from enormities, is a kind of secret
and dangerous fever, which gradually undermines the
powers of the soul, changes all its good dispositions,
weakens its faculties, insensibly corrupts its inward
parts, alters its propensities, spreads an universal bit-
terness over all its duties, disgusts it with every tiling
Vol. L 12
106 SERMOJ^' IV.
proper, with all holy and necessary nourishment ; and
finishes at last, by a total extinction, and an inevitable
death.
This languor of the soul, in the path of salvation, is
so much the more dangerous, as it is less observed.
Our exemption from open disorder gives us confidence ;
the external regularity of conduct, which attracts from
men those praises due only to virtue, flatters us ; and
the secret comparison we make of our morals with the
excesses of those avowed sinners, whom the world and
their passions govern, finishes the delusion. We regard
our situation as a ^tate, less perfect indeed, but always
certain of salvation, as our conscience can only reproach
us with indolence and negligence in the discharge of our
duties, too lenient a correction of our appetites, self-love,
and some slight infidelities, which do nat bring death to
the soul. Nevertheless, since the holy writings repre-
sent the adulterous and the lukewarm soul as equally
rejected by God ; and as they pronounce the same anath-
ema against those who despise the works of the Lord,
and those who perform them with negligence ; this state
of coldness and languor in the path of God, must neces-
sarily be very doubtful of salvation, both from the pre-
sent dispositions which it gives to the soul, and from
those to which, sooner or later, it never fails to lead it.
I say, in the first place, from the present dispositions
it gives to the soul ; namely, a fund of indolence, self
love, disgust to virtue, infidelity, and deliberate disre-
gard to every thing we believe not absolutely essential
in our duties ; dispositions, that form a state, in which
we ought to be very doubtful of salvation.
Secondly, from those to which, sooner or later, luke-
warmness conducts us ; namely, forgetfuluess of God,
STM'E OF LUKEWARMjYESS. 107
and an open and shameful departure from every thing
«acred.
From these I wish to establish two principal truths in
this matter, which expose the danger of a lukewarm and
infidel life ; and which, from their importance, will fur-
nish us with subjects for two different discourses. The
first, That it is very doubtful, whether, in this habitual
state of coldness and languor, the lukewarm soul pre-
serves (as it believes) that righteousness and sanctifying
grace upon which it grounds its security.
The second. That were it eveii less doubtful, wheth-
er it had preserved or lost before God, the sanctifying
grace ; at any rate, it is certain of being unable long to
preserve it.
The uncertainty of righteousness in a state of hike-
warmness — This first truth will be the subject of the
present discourse.
The certainty of a departure from rigliteousness in
that state, is the second truth, upon which, in the follow-
ing one, I shall endeavour to instruct you.
Part I. " If we say that we have no sin, we deceive
ourselves, and the truth is not in us,"' says an Apostle.
The purest virtue below is never free, therefore, from
stain. Man, full of darkness and passions, since the
entrance of sin into the world, cannot always be so at-
tentive to regularity, but that he must sometimes err, and
])e deceived; nor so impressed with true, although in-
visible good, but he will allow himself to be sometimes
caught by worldly and ostensible riches; because their
impressions on the mind are lively and quick, and tliey
abvays find in our hearts dispositions too favourable to
their danirerous seductions.
108 sermojY if.
The fidelity which the law of God exacts from just
soulsj excludes uot, therefore, a thousand imperfections
inseparable from our nature, and from which the most
guarded and watchful piety cannot defend itself; but of
these, there are two descriptions. The first, which hap-
pen through our weakness, are not so much mfidelities as
surprises, where the weight of corruption preponderates
over the inclination and will ; and which the Lord, says
St. Augustine, permits to remain in the most faithful
souls, in order to nourish their humility, excite their la-
meutations, re-animate their desires, their disgust to their
present state of exile, and their longings for its termina-
tion : The second class are tliose which please us, which
we justify to ourselves, which it appears impossible for
us to renounce, which we look upon a» necessary sweet-
eners of virtue, in which we see nothing criminal, be-
cause we perceive not the guilt ; which form a part of the
deliberate and general system of our morals and con-
duct, and constitute that state of indolence and coldness
in the ways of God, which is the cause of condemnation
to so many, born otherwise, perhaps, with principles of
virtue, detestation of iniquity, a fund of religion, a fear
of God, and happy dispositions for salvation.
Now, I say, that this state of relaxation and infideli-
ty ; this tranquil and contiuued negligence of every thing
which perhaps appears not essential in our duties; this
effeminate indulgence of all our desires, so long as they
offer not actual guilt lo our sight ; iu a word, this course
of life, accorduig to our animal nature, our humours,
temperaments, and self love, so common with those who
make a public profession of piety; so safe in appearance,
so glorious even in the eyes of men, and to which the
g^ner^l error attaches the names of virtue and regulan-
STATE OF LUKEWARMJ^ESS. 109
ty : T say, that this is a state extremely uncertain of
salvation ; that it derives its source from an irregular
heart, where the Holy Spirit no longer reigns ; and that
all the rules of faith induce us to think, that a soul of this
descripcion is already, without being sensible of it, fallen
from righteousness and grace : In the first place. Because
the desire of perfection essential to Christian piety is ex-
tinguished in the heart. Secondly, Because the rules of
faith, which distinguish guilt from venial errors, always
very uncertain with regard to other sinners, are infinite-
ly more so with respect to the unfaithful and lukewarm
heart. Thirdly, Because, of all the external marks of
a living and habitual charity, there is not in the lukewarm
soul the smallest appearance of one. Let us investigate
these truths ; for they are indeed worthy of your attention.
Every Christian soul is obliged to aim at a state of
perfection : I say obliged, for, although the degree
of perfection be not comprised in the precept, to endea-
vour at, to labour for perfection, is nevertlieless a com-
mandment, and a duty essential to every believer. Be
ye perfect, says our Saviour, because the heavenly Fa-
ther whom ye serve is perfect. 1 can perceive but one
essential point, said St Paul, viz. to forget whatever I
have done to this period — and Avhat, my brethren, was
he to forget ? his endless labours, continual sufferings,
and apostolic race ; so many nations converted to faith 5
so many illustrious churches founded ; so many revela-
tions and prodigies — and incessantly advancing to direct
my views to the attainment of what I have yet to perform.
The desire of perfection, the continued efforts to attain
it, the holy inquietudes in consequence of the innumerable
obstacles which check our progress, are not only adapted
for the cloister and the desart ; they form the essential
IIU SERMOJ^' IV.
state of a Christian, and the life according to faitb on
this earth.
For the life, according to faith, which the just man
leads, is only an uninterrupted desire that the kingdom
of Grod may be accomplished in our hearts 5 a holy ea-
gerness to form a perfect resemblance in us to Jesus
Christ, and to increase even to the fullness of the new
man ; a continual lamentation, excited by the internal
sensibility of our own miseries, and by tiie load of cor-
ruption which oppresses the soul, and makes it still bear
so many marks of the worldly man ; a daily struggle be-
tween the law of the Spirit, which continually wishes to
raise us above our sensual appetites, and the dominion
of the Hesh, which incessantly draws us back towards
ourselves : Such is the state of faith, and of Christian
piety. Whoever you be, great or of humble rank, prince
or subject, courtier or recluse, behold the perfection to
which you are called ; behold the ground- work and the
spirit of your vocation. The austerities of an anchorite,
the silence and solitude of the desart, the poverty of the
cloister, are not demanded of you ; but you are required
to labour incessantly towards tlie suppression of those
internal desires, which oppose themselves to the law of
God : to mortify those rebellious inclinations, which so
unwillingly submit to order and duty ; m a word, to in-
crease, as much as possible, your perfect conformity with
Jesus Christ. Behold the degree of perfection to which
Christian grace calls you, and the essential duty of a
just soul.
Now, from the moment you give way to every incli-
nation, provided it extends not to the absolute infraction
of the precept ; from the moment you confine yourselves
to the essentials of the law ; that you establish a kind of
STATE OF LUKEWASMjXESS. Hi
system of coldness and negligence ; that you say to yoiu%
selves, " We are unable to support a more exact, or more
exemplary life ;'' from that moment you renounce the de-
sire of perfection ; you no longer propose to yourselves
an unceasing advancement towards that point of piety
and holiness to which the Almighty calls you, and to-
wards which His grace never ceases to impel you in se-
cret : You no longer grieve over those miseries and
weaknesses so inimical to your progress ; you no longer
wish the kingdom of God to be established in your hearts ;
you abandon, therefore, from that moment, the great work
of righteousness, at which you are commanded to labour:
you neglect the care of your soul ; you enter not into the
designs of grace. On the contrary, you check its holy
impulses ; you are no longer Christian 5 that is to say,
that this disposition alone, this formal intention of limit-
ing yourselves to the essentials, and of regarding all the
rest as laudable excesses and works of supererogation,
is a state of sin and death, since it is an avowed contempt
of that great commandment, which re(]uires us to be per-
fect, that is to say, to labour towards becoming so.
Nevertheless, when we come to instruct you with re-
gard to Christian perfection, you look upon it as existing
only in cloisters and solitudes, and scarcely w ill you
deign to give the smallest attention to our instructions.
You deceive yourselves, my brethren; the individuals
who adopt retirement, certainly employ austerities, fas-
ting, and watching, as means to succeed in that mortifi-
cation of the passions, to which we are all equally cal-
led : They engage themselves in a more perfect system,
than I confess our state will admit of; but the perfection
of the end, to which these means conduct, viz. the com-
mand and regulation of the affections, proper contempt
lia SEIiMOJV It.
of the world, detachment from ourselves, submission of
the senses and the flesh to the Spirit, and renovation of
the heart ; are the perfection of all states, the duty of all
Christians, and the covenant of our baptism. To renounce
this perfection, therefore, by limiting ourselves from
choice, or in consequence of our rank in the world, to an
effeminate, sensual, and worldly life, exempt only from
striking enormities ; is to renounce the Christian calling,
and change the grace of faith, which has made us mem-
bers of Jesus Christ, into a shameful and unworthy in-
dolence. Here is my first reason.
But, were tiiis state even not so uncertain of salvation,
with respect to the desire of perfection essential to
a Christian life, and which is extinguished in a luke-
warm and unfaithful soul ; it would become so by the
incapacity which it occasions, and in wliich it places it-
self, of distinguishing in its conduct the infidelities which
may extend to guilt, from those which may be termed
simple errors. For though it is true, that all sins arc
not sins which bring death, as St. John observes, and
that Christian morality acknowledges errors, which on-
ly grieve the Holy Spirit within us, and others which
extinguisli it altogether in the soul; nevertheless, the
rules which it furnishes to distinguish these, can neither
be always certain nor general at the moment they are
applied; some circumstances relative to ourselves con-
tinually change their nature. 1 speak not here of those
manifest and absolute transgressions of the precepts mar-
ked in the law, which leave no hesitation respecting the
enormity of the offence : I speak of a thousand doubtful
and daily transgressions; of hatred, jealousy, calumny,
sensuality, vanity, idleness, duplicity, negligence in the
practice of our duties, and ambition ; in all which it is
STiâTE OF LUKEWARMJ^ESS. lia
extremely difficult to define how far the precept may be
violated : Now, I say, that it is by the disposition of the
heart alone, that the measure and guilt of these faults can
be decided ; that the rules on this point are always un-
certain and changeable ; and that frequently what is on-
ly an oversight or weakness in the just, is guilt and cor-
ruption, not only in the sinner, but likewise in the luke-
warm and unfaithful soul : This is proven by the follow»
ing examples taken from the holy writings.
Saul, in disobedience to the order of the Lord, spared
the king of the Amalekites, and the most precious spoils
of that infidel prince. The crime does not appear con-
siderable ; but as it proceeded from pride, from relax-
ation in the ways of God, and a vain satisfaction in
his victory ; this action is the commencement of his rep-
robation, and the Spirit of God withdraws itself from
him. Joshua, on the contrary, too credulous, spares the
Gibeonites, whom the Lord had commanded him to ex-
terminate ; he went not before the ark to consult Him,
previous to his alliance with these impostors. But this
infidelity, being an act of precipitancy and mistake ra-
ther than of disobedience, and proceeding from a heart
still faithful, religious, and submissive to God, it appears
slight in His eyes, and the pardon almost immediately
follows the crime. Now, if this principle be incontro-
vertible, upon what do you depend, when you regard
your daily and habitual infidelities as slight ? Are you
acquainted with all the corruption of your heart, from
which they proceed ? God knows it, who is the searcher
and judge; and his eyes are very différent from those of
men. But if it be permitted to judge before the time,
say, if this fund of indolence and infidelity which is in
you ; of voluntary perseverance in a state displeasing to
Yol. L 13
114) SERMOJV ir
God ; of deliberate contempt for all the duties which you
consider as not essential ; of attention and care^ as I may
say, to labour only for the Lord when He opens before
you the gates of punishment and destruction ; say, if all
these can constitute in His sight a state worthy of a Chris-
tian heart — and if faults, which proceed from so corrupt
a principle, can in reality be slight, or worthy of indul-
gence?
Paul, my brethren, that miraculous man, to whom the
secrets of heaven had been revealed ; Paul, who no Ion»
ger lived for himself, but in whom Jesus Christ alone
lived ; Paul, who earnestly longed every moment for the
dissolution of his earthly body, that he might be clothed
with immortality ; this Apostle, always ready to sacri-
fice his life for his master, and a willing victim to faith ;
this elected instrument of our Lord and Saviour, whose
conscience could reproach him with nothing, knew not,
however, whether he merited the love or hatred of his
Lord ; whether he still possessed in his heart, or had
forfeited, tlie invisible treasure of charity ; and in these
melancholy doubts, the testimony of his conscience was
insufficient to calm his dread and uncertainty. David,
that penitent king, whose delights were centered in the
constant meditation of the law of God, and whom the
Holy 8])irit calls a king after God's own heart ; David
trembles, however, lest the iniquity of his crimes be not
sufficiently known to him ; lest the corruption of his heart
conceals from him their enormity. He figures to him-
self unknown gulfs in his conscience, which cause him to
shed torrents of tears before the Majesty and Holiness
of his God, and to supplicate His assistance towards his
purification from secret infidelities, by making him sen-
sible of them. And you, who watch not, nor search
ST^TE OF LUKEWARMJ^TESS. 115
yo^ir hearts ; you who, devoted to cold and sensual hab-
its, with deliberate coolness, allow yourselves every day
a thousand infidelities, upon the iniquity of which, you
are utterly ignorant what judgment the Almiglity may
form: You. who every moment experience those suspi-
cious ebullitions of passion, where, in spite of all your
self-indulgence, you find it so difficult to prove, that tlie
will has not accompanied the gratification ; and that you
have not overstept that critical and dangerous line, which
distinguishes actual guilt from involuntary error : You,
in whom almost every action is suspicious ; may who
every moment ask of your own heart, " Have I not
gone too far ? '' who, in your own conscience, feel
movements and regrets, which you will never quiet : You
who, in spite of so many just subjects of dread, believe
the state of your conscience to be perfectly known to you ;
that the decisions of your own self-love, with regard to
your infidelities, are the decisions of the Almighty ; and
that the Lord, whom you serve with so much coldness
and negligence, does uot yield you up to your own blind-
ness, and punish your criuies, by making you mistake
them : You can possibly believe that you still preserve
your righteousness, and the grace of sanctification, and
can reconcile yourselves to your visible and habitual
guilt, by a pretended invisible exercise of righteousness,
of which you can produce neither mark nor proof?
O man ! how little art thou acquainted with the illu-
sions of the human heart, and the terrible judgments of
God upon those souls which resemble thine ! Thou say-
est to thyself, I am rich, I am loaded with the good things
of this world ; (thus did our Saviour formerly reproach
a cold and unbelieving soul:) And thou perceivest
not, continued He, (for blindness and presumption are
ii6 SERMQJV IV,
the distîngiiishiDg character of lukewavmness,) that in my
sight, thou art poor, miserable, blind, and lost to every
thing. It is the destiny, therefore, of a lukewarm and
unfaithful soul, to live in error and illusion ; to believe
itself just and acceptable to God, while, alas ! before
Hira, it is lost, without knowing it, to both grace and
righteousness.
And one reflection, which I beg you to make here, is,
that the confidence of such souls is so much the more ill-
founded, as there exists nota soul, less capable of judg-
ing of his own heart, than the lukewarm and unfaithful
one. For the avowed sinner cannot conceal his crimes
from himself; and he is sensible, that he must assured-
ly be dead to the Lord: The just man, although igno-
rant whether he merits the love or hatred of his Master,
enjoys nevertheless a conscience free from reproach ; but
the cold and unfaithful soul is involved in a state of con-
tinual and inexplicable mystery to itself. For this luke-
warmness in tlie ways of Grod, enfeebling in us the lights
of faith, and strengthening our passions, increases our
darkness : Every infidelity is like an additional cloud,
overspreading the mind and heart, which darkens to our
sight the truths of salvation : In this manner, the heart
is gradually entangled ; the conscience becomes embar-
rassed ; the lights of the mind are weakened : You are
no long(îr that spiritual Christian, capable of a proper
judgment. Insensibly you adopt maxims in secret,
which, as you thirds, diminish your guilt ; the blindness
increases in the same proportion as the lukewarmness.
The more you admit of this relaxation, in a more al-
tered light do your duties and rules appear. What for-
merly seemed essential, no longer appears but a vain scru-
ple : Those omissions, which, in the period of fervour for
STATE OF LUKEWJRMJ^ESS. 117
duty and religion, would have excited in you the warm^
est compunctions, are now no longer regarded even as
faults : The principles, the judgment, the lights of the
mind, all are changed.
Now, in this situation, who has told you, that in the
judgment which you form of the nature of your infideli-
ties, and your daily departure from virtue, you do not
deceive yourselves? Who has told you, that the errors
which you think so slight, are in reality so ; and that the
distant boundaries which you prescribe to guilt, and
within which every thing appears to you venial, are re=
ally the limits of the law? Alas! the most enlightened
guides know not how to distinguish clearly in a cold and
unbelieving conscience. These are what I may call the
evils of that languor in which we know nothing; where
the wisest of us can say nothing with certainty ; and of
which the secret cause is always an enigma. You are
sensible yourselves, that in this state of relaxation, you
experience in your hearts certain doubts and embarrass-
ments, which you can never sufficiently clear up : That
in your consciences there always remains something se-
cret and inexplicable, which you never wish to search in-
to, or make manifest. These are not exaggerations ; it is
the real state and bottom of your soul, whicli you feel
a disinclination to lay open : You are sensible, that even
when prostrating yourselves before the Almighty, the
confession of your guilt never entirely corresponds with
the most intimate dispositions of your heart ; that it nev-
er paints your internal situation such as it really is ; and^
in a word, that there always exists in your heart some-
thing more criminal, than you can bring yourselves to
avow. And, indeed, how can you be certain, that in
those continual «elf-£:ratirications : in that efleminacy of
ilB SÉRMOjsr IV.
manners which composes your life ; in that attention to
every thing wliich may flatter the senses, or remove dis-
quiet from you, to sacrifice to indolence and laziness, all
which appears not essential in your duties ; how can you
be certain, I say, that your self-love is not arrived at that
fatal point, w hich serves to give it dominion over your
heart, and for ever banish from it Christian charity ?
Who is able to answer you, in these frequent and vol-
untary infidelities, where, comforted by their pretended
insignificancy, you oppose the internal grace which en-
deavours to turn you from them, and continually act
contrary to your own reason and judgment ; whether this
internal contempt of the voice of God, this formal and
daily abuse of your own lights and grace, be not an out-
rage upon the Divine goodness ; a criminal contempt of
His gifts ; a wickedness in your deviations from virtue,
which leaves no excuse ; and a deliberate preference of
your passions and yourselves over Jesus Christ, which
can alone proceed from a heart where the love of all or-
der and righteousness is extinguished ? Who can tell
-youj if, in tiiese thoughts where your listless mind has a
thousand times dwelt upon objects or events dangerous
to modesty, your indolence in combating tliem has not
been criminal ; and if the efforts which you afterwards
made, were not an artifice of self love, in order to dis-
guise their criminality, and quiet ;^ou in regard to the
indulgence you had already yielded to your crimes ?
Who would dare to determine, if, in these secret antip-
athies and animosities, which you give yourselves but
little trouble to restrain, (and that always more for the
sake of appearances than through piety,) you have never
exceeded that slippery line, beyond which dwell hatred,
and death to the soul! If, in that excess of sensibility,
STATE OF LUKE JVORMJVESS. 119
which in general accompanies all your afflictions, infir-
mities, losses, and disgraces, those which you call feel-
ings, attached and inevitable to nature, are not irregular-
ities of the heart, and a revolt against the decrees of
Providence ? If, in all that attention and eagerness with
which we see you occupied, to manage either the inter-
ests of your worldly affairs, or the preservation of a vain
beauty, there is not either as much forwardness as may
amount to the crime of illegal ambition, or complaisance
for yourself, and desire of pleasing, as may sully your
heart with the guilt of sensuality ? Great Grod ! who
hast well discerned, as thy servant Job formerly i*emar«
ked, the fatal limits which separate life from death, and
light from darkness, in the heart ; these are tlie gulphs
and abysses over which mankind, little instructed in
them, must tremble ; and of which Thou reservest the
manifestation till the terrible day of thy vengeance shall
arrive. Second reason, drawn from that uncertainty of
rules, by which the state of a lukewarm soul becomes ve-
ry doubtful, and by which it is even rendered incapable
of knowing itself.
But a final reason, which to me appears still more
decisive, and more dreadful to the lukewarm soul, is, that
no appearance exists from which we can presume, that
it still preserves the sanctifying grace ; on the contrary,
every thing induces us to suppose it forfeited ; that is to
say, that of all the symptoms of an habitual and living
charity, there is not a vestige of one in the lukewarm soul.
For, my brethren, the first office of charity is to
fill us with that spirit of filial affection, which leads us to
love Grod as our heavenly Father, to love his law, and
the justice of his commandments ; and to dread the for»
feiture of his love, more than all the evils with which
he threatens iis.
Now^ the attention alone with which a lukewarm soul
examines whether an oflence be venial^ or extends fur-
ther ; the care which it takes to dispute with God every
article it may refuse him, without actual guilt ; to study
the law, only for the purpose of knowing to what extent
it may be violated ; to prefer constantly the interests of
its own cupidity to those of grace ; and to justify those
things which flatter the passions, in opposition to the
rules which check or forbid them ; this attention, I say,
can only proceed from a heart destitute of faith and char-
ity ; from a heart in which the Spirit of God, that spirit
of love and kindness, apparently no longer reigns. For
no children but the prodigal are capable of cavilling in
this manner with their father and protector ; of exerci-
sing to the utmost length of severity any claims they may
have, and of seizing all they may think themselves en»
titled to.
Now, in order to give this reflection all its weight :
That disposition, which deliberately allows itself every
infidelity, that will not, it believes, be followed by eter-
nal punishment, is the disposition of a slave and hireling;
that is to say, that could they promise themselves the
same impunity and indulgence from the Almighty, for
the transgression of the essential points of the law, they
would violate them with the same indifference as they
violate the least ; for, were cruel and avow ed revenge,
calumny of the blackest nature, and criminal attach-
ments, to be attended in futurity with no worse conse*
quences than slight and momentary resentments, acciden-
tal and careless evil- speaking, or too much self-love,
they would feel no more horror in the commission of the
one, than of the other ; that is to say, that when faithful
to the commandments, it is not from a love of righteous-
STATE OF LUKEWARMJSi'ESS. Igl
iiess, but the dread of that punishment, which would at=
tend their infraction ; it is not to order and to the law
that they submit themselves, it is to their cliastisement ;
it is not the Lord they have in view, it is themselves :
For, while His glory alone is interested, and no serious
consequences may be exi>ected to follow our infidelities,
from their apparent slightness, we are not afraid of dis-
pleasing Him ; we even justify to ourselves in secret this
kind of transgression, by saying, that notwithstanding
they offend, and are displeasing to the Lord, yet they
bring not death, nor eternal punishment, to the soul : We
are not affected by what regards Him only ; His glory en-
ters not into our thoughts in the distinction we make be-
tween actions allowed or forbidden; our interest alone reg-
ulates our fidelity ; and nothing can warm our coldness,
but the dread of everlasting punishment. We are even de-
lighted with the impunity of those trivial transgressions,
with being able to gratify our inclinations, Avithout any
greater misfortune attending them, than the displeasure of
the Almighty: We love this wretched liberty, whixih seems
to leave us the right of being unpunished, though unfaith-
ful : We are the apologists of it ; we carry it even fur-
ther than in reality it goes : We wish every thing to be
venial ; gaming, dress, sensual pleasures, passion, ani-
mosities, public spectacles ; what shall I say ? we would
wish this freedom to be universal ; that nothing which
gratifies our appetites should be punished ; that the Al-
mighty were neither just, nor the avenger of iniquity ;
and that we might yield ourselves u[) to the gratification
of every passion, and violate the sanctity of His law, with-
out any dread of the severity of its justice. However
little a lukewarm soul will descend to an examination of
Vol. I. 14
lââ sermojy ly.
itself, it will feel, that this is truly the principle of its
heart, and its real disposition.
>îow, 1 ask you, is this the situation of a soul in which
are sanctifying charity and grace still preserved ? that
is to say, a soul which loves its Maker more than the
world, more than all created beings, more than all plea-
sures or riches, more than itself? Of a soul which can
feel no joy but in His possession ; which dreads only
His loss, and knows no misfortune but that of His dis-
pleasure ? Does the charity you flatter yourselves still
to preserve, seek, in this manner, its own interest ? Does
it regard, as nothing, the displeasure of Him it loves,
provided its infidelities remain unpunished? Does it
think of disputing, like you, every day, to what degree
it may safely offend Him ; in order to take its measures
accordingly, and then allow itself every transgression to
which impunity is attached ? Does it see nothing amia-
ble in its God, or capable of attaching the heart, but His
chastisements ? Were He not even an Almighty and an
avenging God, would it be less affected by His infinite
mercies. His truth, holiness, wisdom, fatherly tender-
ness, and protection ? Ah, lukewarm and infidel soul Î
Thou lovest Him no longer : Thou livest only for thy-
self. The small remains of fidelity, which still keep
thee from sin, are preserved only by thy sloth, timidity,
and self love. Thou wishest to live in peace with thy-
self: Thou dreadest the embarrassments of passion,
and the remorse of a sullied conscience ; iniquity becomes
fatiguing, and that alone displeases thee with it : Thou
lovest thine own ease ; and that is thy sole religion : In-
dolence is the only barrier which stops thee, and all thy
virtue is limited to thyself. Surely, thou wouldest wish
to know, whether this infidelity be a venial transgression,
STATE OF LUKEWARMJ^'ESS. 1^8
or if it extends further. Thou acknowledgest, that it
displeases God, (for that point admits of no doubt,) yet is
that not sufficient to turn thee from it ? Thou wouldest
wish to know, whether it so far displeases Him, as to
provoke His everlasting wrath? Ah! Thou seest very
well, that this investigation tends to nothing but tliyself ;
that thy disposition leads thee to think nothing of guilt,
as an offence and a cause of displeasure to God ; a power-
ful reason, however, why it should be detestable to thee :
That thou no longer servest the Lord in truth and in
charity ; that thy pretended virtue is only a natural tim-
idity, which dare not expose itself to the terrible ven-
geance of the law ; that thou art like a vile and wretch-
ed slave, to restrain whom, it is necessary to keep scour-
ges continually in sight ; that thou resemblest that un=
faithful eervant, who secreted his talent, because he knew
that his master was severe, and, but for that reason, would
have w asted it in dissipation ; and that in the bottom of
the heart, to which alone the Almighty looketh, thou ha-
test His law : Thou lovest every thing it forbids : Thou
art no longer in charity : Thou art a child of death and
perdition.
The second character of charity, says St. Bernard, is
to be timorous, and to magnify to ourselves our smallest
deviations ; not that charity deceives or conceals from
us the truth ; but, disengaging the soul from the senses,
it purifies our view of faith, and renders it more quick-
sighted in spiritual affairs ; and besides, whatever is in
the smallest degree displeasing to the only object of our
love, appears serious and considerable to the soul which
loves. Thus charity is always humble, timid, and dis-
trustful of itself ; unceasingly agitated by its pious per-
plexities, which leave it in suspense respecting its real
i24é SE M MO K IV.
state ; always alarmed by those nice points of gi'ace^
which make it tremble at every action ; which from the
state of uncertainty in which they leave it, make a kind
of martyrdom of love, by which it is purified. These
are not the vain and puerile scruples, which we blame in
weak minds : They are those pious fears of charity and
of grace^ inseparable from every faithful and religious
soul : It works its salvation with fear and trembling ; and
even frequently regards as crimes, actions, which are
often virtues in the sight of God, and which, at most^
can only be regarded as simple acts of weakness.
These are the holy perplexities of charity, which de-
rive their source even from the lights of faith. This path
has, in all ages, been the path of the just.
Yet nevertheless, it is that pretended charity, of which,
in the midst of a vicious life, and of all your infidelities,
you believe yourselves still possessed, that makes them
appear slight to you : It is that charity itself, which you
suppose not to have lost, that comforts and encourages
you ; that diminishes your faults in your own sight, and
fixes you in a state of peace and security : In a word,
that not only banishes from your heart all those pious
alarms, inseparable from real piety, but makes you re-
gard them as weaknesses, and even the excesses of pie-
ty. Now tell me, I beg of you, is not that an inconsis-
tency? Does charity contradict itself in that manner?
Or can you place much dependence on a love, which so
nearly resembles hatred ?
The last character of charity, is to be active and dili-
gent in the ways of God. We find how much the Apos-
tle dwells on its activity and fecundity in the heart of a
Christian. It operates wherever it is ; it cannot, say the
saints, be idle : It is a celestial fire, whith no power can
STATE OF LUKEWARMJ^TESS, 1^0
hinder from acting and making its way : It may some=
times indeed be overwhelmed, and greatly weakened
by the multitude of our weaknesses, but, while not en-
tirely extinguished, there always proceed from it, as I
may say, some sparks, as sighs, wishes, lamentations,
efforts, and deeds. The Holy Sacrament re- animates
it ; prayer arouses it ; pious reading, affliction, disgrace,
bodily infirmity, all re^kindle.it, when not utterly extin-
guished. It IS written in the second book of the Mac-
cabees, that the sacred fire, which the Jews had conceal-
ed during their captivity, was found at their return, ap-
parently extinct : but as the surface alone was obscu-
red, and it still internally preserved all its virtue^
scarcely was it exposed to the rays of the sun, when
they saw it instantaneously rekindle, and present to
their sight a brightness altogether new, and an activi-
ty altogether astonishing.
Behold, my brethren, a faithful representation of the
coldness of a truly just soul. Such likewise would be
your case, had the multitude of your infidelities done no
more than cover and relax, as I may say, without ex-
tinguishing the sacred fire of charity within you : Be-
hold, I say, what ought to be your situation, when you
approach the Holy Sacrament, or listen to the word of
Grod. When Jesus Christ, the Sun of righteousness,
darts upon you the rays of His grace and light, and in^
spires you with holy desires, your lieart ought then to
be re-kindled, and your fervour renewed ; you ought
then to appear all fire and animation in the practice of
your duty, and astonish even the most intimate wit-
nesses of your former life, by the renovation of your mo»
rals and zeal.
Alas Î nothing, however, re-animates you. Even the
lâé SERMOJV IV
Holy Sacrament leaves you all your coldness : The
word of the gospel which you listen to, falls upon your
heart as upon a sterile land, where it immediately dies :
The sentiments of salvation which grace operates with-
in you, are never followed with any effect in the ameli-
oration of your morals ; you continually drag on in the
same indolence and languor; you depart from the holy
altar equally cold, equally insensible, as when you ap-
proached it : We see not in you those revivals of zeal, pi-
ety, and fervour, so common in just souls, and of which
the motives are to be found in their deviations from duty.
What you were yesterday, you are to-day : the same in-
fidelities, the same weaknesses ; you advance not a sin-
gle step in the road to salvation : all the fire of heaven
could scarcely re-kindle in the bottom of your heart this
pretended charity, upon which you depend so much.
Ah ! my dear hearer, how much do I dread that it is ex-
tinct, and that you are dead in the sight of the Lord ! I
wish not to anticipate the secret judgments of God upon
the conscience; but I must tell you, that your state is
very far from being safe ; I must even tell you, that if we
are to judge by the rules of faith, you are in disgrace with^
and hated of the Lord ; 1 must tell you likewise, that a
coldness so durable and constant, cannot subsist with a
principle of heavenly and eternal life, which, from
time to time at least, betrays external movements and
signs, raises, animates itself, and takes wing, as if to dis-
engage itself from the shackles which weigh it down ;
and that a charity so mute, so indolent, and so constant-
ly insensible, cannot exist.
But the great danger of this state, my brethren, is,
that a lukewarm soul is in that situation without scru-
ple : it feels that it might carry its fervour and fidelity to
STATE OF LUKEWARMJ^ESS. 1^7
a much greater length, but it looks upon that zeal, and
that exactitude, as a perfection and a grace, reserved
only for certain souls, and not as a general duty ; in this
manner do they settle themselves in that degree of cold-
ness into which they are fallen ; they have not made, nor
scarcely attempted, the smallest progress in virtue, since
the first ardours of conversion. It would appear, that
having exhausted all their fervour against the criminal
passions with which they had at first to comliat, they
imagine, that nothing now remains, but to enjoy in peace
the fruits of their victory, and think no more of repair-
ing the thousand damages which still remain from their
first shipwreck. So far from endeavouring to repress
the weakness, and corrupted inclinations, left them by
their first irregularities ; they love and cherish them. The
Holy Sacrament no longer re-animates or invigorates
their faith : it only entertains it. Conversion is no Ion-
ger the end they propose ; they believe it already done :
And, alas ! their confessions, even to the Almighty, are
more for the purpose of lulling their consciences, than the
eifects of piety and real contrition.
We impose greatly upon ourselves, my brethren, in
regard to our conscience reproaching us with nothing
criminal ; for we see not, that it is even that ti'anquillity
wliich constitutes the danger, and perhaps the guilt. We
believe ourselves in security in our state, because it per-
haps offers to our sight more innocence and regularity,
than that of disorderly souls ; and indeed, we wish not
to conceive how a life purely natural, should not be a
life of grace and of faith ; or that a state of habitual idle-
ness and sensual gratification, should be a state of sin
and death in a Christian life.
Thus, my dear hearer, particularly whom this dis^
1^ SÈUMOjY if.
course regards, re-animate yourself without ceasing in
the spirit of your vocation ; according to the advice of
the Apostle, revive yourself every day by prayer, by
mortification of the senses, by vigilance over your pas-
sions, and by a continual retrospection and investigation
of your own heart, that first grace, which operates to
draw you from the errors and wanderings of the world,
and make you enter into the paths of God. Depend up-
on it, that piety has nothing sure or consoling but fidel-
ity ; that in relaxing from it, you only augment your
troubles, because you multiply your bonds ; that in re-
trenching from your duty, zeal, fervour, and exactitude,
you likewise retrench all its sweets and pleasures ; that
in depriving your state of fidelity, you deprive it of se-
curity ; and that, in limiting yourself simply to shun in-
iquity, you lose the most precious fruits of virtue.
And after all, since you have already sacrificed the
essential, why will you attach yourselves to the frivo-
lous parts ? After having accomplished the most labo-
rious and painful exertions towards salvation, must you
perish for not finishing the slightest and most easy ?
When Naaman, not sufficiently convinced, because the
prophet, for the cure of his lepi*osy, had only ordered
him to bathe in the waters of Jordan, retired full of con-
tempt for the man of God, and believing it impossible
that his recovery could be accomplished by so simple a
remedy, the people who accompanied him made him
sensible of his error, by saying to him, " But, master,
'* had the prophet bid thee do some great thing, wouldst
" thou not have done it ? how much rather, then, when lie
'^ saith to thee. Wash, and be clean ?"
And now, my brethren, behold what I have to say,
in finishing this discourse. You have abandoned the
STATE OF LUKEWARMJ^TESS. 129
world^ and the idols wliich you formerly worshipped in
it ; you are come from afar into the paths of God ; you
have had many passions to overcome^ and obstacles to
surmount, many things to sacrifice, and difficult exertions
to make ; there remains only one step more to accomplish,
which is, a faithful and constant vigilance over your-
selves. If a sacrifice of the criminal passions were not
already made, and you were required to do it, 3 ou v*'ould
not, I believe, hesitate a moment ; cost what it might, you
would make it : And, in the mean while, when simple
purifications only are demanded of you ; nay, when you
are required to do almost the same tilings which you al-
ready do, but only to perform them with more fervour,
fidelity, faith, and vigilance ; are you excusable in de-
clining them ? Why will you render useless all your
former efforts, by the refusal of a thing so easy ? Why
should you have renounced the world, and all its crimi-
nal pleasures, only to find in piety the same danger,
which, by flying from sin, you thought to have escaped ?
And would it not be lamentable, if, after having sacrifi-
ced to God the principal, you should lose yourselves,
by wishing still to dispute with Him a thousand little
sacrifices, much less painful to the heart and to na-
ture?
Finish, then, in us, O my God ! that which Thy
grace has already begun; triumph over our languor
and our weakness, since Thou hast already triumph-
ed over our crimes ; give us a heart fervent and faith-
ful, since Thou hast already deprived us of a criminal
and corrupted one ; inspire us with that willing sub-
mission which the upright possess, since Thou hast
extinguished in us that pride and obstinacy which oc-
casion so many sinners : Leave not, O my God ! Thy
Vol, J. 1.1
130 SERMO^i^ IV.
work unuiiislied ; and since Thou hast already made
us enter into the holy lists of salvation, render us wor-
thy of the holy crown promised to those who shall have
lawfully fought for it.
Now to God J &c. Amen.
f i^ )
SERMON V.
THE CERTAINTY OF THE LOSS OF
RIGHTEOUSNESS IN A STATE
OF LUKEWARMNESS,
Luke iv. 38.
^ind he rose out of the Synagogue, and entered into Su
mon^s house : and Simon^s tmfe^s mother was taken
icith a great fever ; and they besought him for her.
Since Simon thouglit the presence of our Saviour
necessary for the cure of his mother- in4aw^ it woukl ap
pear, my brethren, that the evil was pressing, and threat
ened an approaching death ; the usual remedies must
have been found ineffectual, and nothing but a miraclo-
could operate her cure, and draw her from the gates of
death ; n evertheless, the Scripture mentions her being
attacked by only a common fever. On other occasions,
we never find that they had recourse to our Saviour, but
to raise people from the grave, to cure paralytics^ res>
13â SEUMOjY V.
tore sight to tlie bliad, and hearing to the deaf; and, in
a word, to cure diseases incurable by any other than the
sovereign Master of life and death : In this instance, He
is called upon to restoi*e health to a person attacked by a
simple fever.
Whence comes it that the Almighty power is employ-
ed on so slight an occasion ? It is, that this fever, being
a natural image of lukewarmness in the ways of God^
the Holy Spirit has wished to make us understand by
it, that this disease, apparently so slight, and from which
no danger is apprehended ; this lukewarmness, so com-
mon in piety, is a disease which inevitably destroys the
soul, and that a miracle is necessary to rescue it from
death.
Yes, my brethren, of all the maxims of Christian mor-
ality, there is none upon Avhich experience allows us less
to deceive ourselves, than the one which assures us, that
contempt for the smallest points of our duty insensibly
leads us to a transgression of the most essential ; and
that negligence in the ways of God, is never far from a
total loss of righteousness. He who despises the les-
ser ol)jects of religion, says the Holy Spirit, will grad-
ually fall ; he Avho despises them, is one who delib-
erately violates them, and lays down, as it were, a
plan of conduct ; for if, through weakness or surprise,
you fail in them sometimes, it is the common destiny
of the just, and this discourse would no longer have ref-
erence to you ; but to despise them in the sense already
mentioned, which can happen only with lukewarm and
unfaithful souls, is a path which must terminate in the
loss of righteousness. In the first place, because the spe-
cial grace necessary towards perseverance in virtue is
no longer granted. Secondly, Because the ])assions are
STATE OF LUJlÈWJUMJSTESS. 133
strengthened which lead us on to vice. Thirdly, Be
cause all the external succours of piety become useless.
Let us develop these three refiectious : They contain
important instructions in the detail of a Christian life :
Useful, not only to those who make profession of a pub-
lic and avowed piety, but likewise to those who make
all virtue to consist in that regularity of conduct and
propriety of behaviour, which even the world requires.
Pakt I.— It is a serious truth, says St. Augus-
tin, that the innocence of even the most upright has oc-
casion for the continual assistance of grace. Man, deli-
vered up to sin by the wickedness of his nature, no lon-
ger finds in himself but principles of error, and sources
of corruption : Righteousness and truth, originally born
with us, are now become as strangers ; ail our inclina-
tions, rebelling against God and His law, drag us on in
spite of ourselves towards illicit objects ; in so much^
that to return to our duty, and submit our heart to the
law, it is necessary ince santly to resist the impres-
sions of the senses ; to subdue our warmest inclinations,
and to harden ourselves continually against ourselves.
There is no duty but what now costs us something; no
precept in the law but combats some of our passions;
no step in the paths of God against which our heart does
not revolt.
To this load of corruption, which renders duty so dif-
ficult and irksome, and iniquity so natural, add the snares
which surround us, the examples which entice us, the ob-
jects which effeminate us, the temptations which surprise
us, the comjdiances which weaken us, the afflictions
which discourage us, the prosperities which corrupt us,
•the situations whirh blind us, and the (Oîitra dictions
134 s£2iJio.v r.
Avhicli we experience ; every thing around us is indeed
only one continued temptation. I speak not of the mis-
eries which are natural to us^ nor of the particular opposi-
tion to order and righteousness, which our past morals,
and our iirst passions, have left in our hearts ; that love
for the world and its pleasures ; that dislike to virtue
and its maxims ; that empire of the senses, fortified by
a voluptuous life ; that invincible indolence, to which ev-
ery thing is a burden, and to which Avhatever is a bur-
den becomes almost impossible; that pride, which knows
neither how to bend or break ; that inconstancy of heart,
incapable of end or uniformity, which presently tires of
itself; which cannot submit to rule, because that is al-
ways the same ; which wishes, and wishes not; passes
in a moment from the lowest state of dejection, to a vain
and childish joy, and leaves scarcely the interval of a
moment between the sincerest resolution, and the infidd-
ity which violates it.
Now, ill a situation so miserable, wliat, O my God !
can the most righteous man accomplish, delivered up to
his own weakness, and all the snares which surround
him ; bearing in his heart the source of all his errors,
and in his mind the principles of every illusion? The
grace of Jesus Christ, therefore, can alone deliver him
from so many miseries ; enlighten him in the midst of so
much darkness ; support him under so many difficulties ;
restrain him from following the dictates of so many rap-
id desires, and strengthen him against so many attacks.
If left a moment to himself, he inevitably stumbles, and
is lost. If an Almighty hand ceases an instant to detain
him, he is carried down by the stream. Our consisten-
cy in virtue is therefore a continual grace and miracle ;
all our steps in the ways of God are new motions of the
STATE OF LUKEWJiRM^'ESS. 135
Holy Spirit ; that is to say^ of that invisible guidc^ which
impels and leads us on. All our pious actions are gifts
of Divine mercy ; since every proper use of our liberty
comes from Him^ and He crowns His gifts in recompen-
sing our merits : All the moments of our Christian life
are like a new creation, therefore, in faith, and in piety ;
that is td say, (for this spiritual creation does not sup-
pose a non-existence in the just, but a principle of grace,
and a liberty which co-operates with it,) that as, in the
order of nature, we should again return to our state of
non-entity, if the Creator ceased an instant to preserve
the being He has given us ; in the life of grace, we would
again fall into sin and death, did the Redeemer cease a
single moment to continue, by new succours, the gift of
righteousness and holiness, with which he has embel-
lished our souls. Such is the weakness of man, and such
is his continual dependence on the grace of Jesus Christ.
The fidelity of the just soul is therefore the fruit of con»
tinual aids of grace ; but it is likewise ih^ cause. It is
grace alone which can operate the fidelity of the just;
and it is the fidelity alone of the just, which merits the
preservation and increase of grace in the heart.
For, my brethren, the ways of God towards us being
full of equity and wisdom, there must necessarily be some
order in the distribution of His gifts and grace : The
Lord must communicate Himself more abundantly to the
soul which faithfully prepares its heart for his ways ;
He must bestow more continual marks of His protection
and mercy on the upright lieart, which gives Him con-
stant proof of love and fidelity; and the servant who
improves his talent, must necessarily be recompensed in
proportion to the profit he has known how to reap from
it. It is just, on the contrary, that a lukeAvarm and un
136 SEltMOJV V
faithful hearty which serves its God with uegligeiice and
disgust, should find the Almighty cold and disgusted to-
wards it. The misery inseparable from lukewarmness,
is tlierefore the privation of the grace of protection. If
you become cold, the Almighty becomes so towards you ;
if you limit yourself, with regard to Him. to those essen-
tial duties, which you cannot refuse Him without guilty
He confines Himself with regard to you, to those gener-
al succours which will not support you far. He retires
from you in proportion as you retire from Him ; and
the measure of fidelity with which you serve Him, is
the measure of protection you may expect to receive.
Nothing can be more equitable than this conduct;
for you enter into computation with your God. You
neglect every opportunity where you might give Him
proofs of your fidelity, and He omits all those in which
He might give you proofs of His kindness ; you dis-
pute every thing with Him, of which you think you
dare avoid the payment : You carefully watch lest you
do any thing for Him beyond what duty requires. It
appears you say to Him, what He formerly said to the
unfaithful servant, take that thine is, and go thy way.
You reckon with God, as 1 may say : All your atten-
tion is engaged in prescribing limits to the right He has
over your heart ; and all his attention likewise, if I may
be permitted to speak in this manner, is to put bounds
to His mercies to your soul : He pays your indifference
with His own. Love is the price of love alone ; and if
you do not sufficiently feel all the terror and extent of
this truth, allow me to explain to you its consequen-
ces.
The first is, that this state of lukevvarmness and infi-
delity, removing the soul from the gi-ace of protection,
ST^TE OF LUKEir^RMJSTESS. 137
leaves it, as I may say, void of God, and in the hands,
as it were, of its own weakness. It may undoubtedly,
with the common succours left it, still preserve the fidel-
ity it owes to God. It has always enough for support in
well-doing ; but its lukewarmness deprives it of the a-
bility to apply its resources to any purpose ; that is to say,
that it is still aided by those succours which may enable
it to go on ; but no longer by those with which it may in-
fallibly persevere ; there is no peril, therefore, in this
situation, but makes a dangerous impression upon it, and
leads it to the brink of ruin.
I grant, that a happy natural disposition, some re-
mains of modesty, and fear of God ; a conscience still
afraid of guilt, and a reputation to preserve, may for
some time defend it against itself; but as these resour-
ces, drawn mostly from nature, cannot extend far ; as the
sensual objects, in the midst of which it lives, make
every day new wounds in its heart ; and grace, less a-
bundant, repairs not the loss ; alas ! its strength exhausts
every moment, faith relaxes, and truth is obscured ; the
more it advances, the worse it becomes : Such sonls
feel perfectly, that they no longer retire from the world
and its dangers, equally innocent as formerly ; that they
carry their weakness and compliance much fartlier ; that
they encroach upon limits which they formerly respec-
ted ; that loose conversations find them more indulgent,
evil-speaking more favourable, pleasure less guarded,
and the world more anxious for it ; that they bring into it a
heart already half- gained ; that they are sensible of their
losses, but feel nothing to repair them ; in a word, that
God is almost withdrawn from them, and there is no lon-
ger any barrier but their own weakness, betwixt them=
selves and guilt. Behold the situation in which you are
Vol. L 16
138 sEiiMo:\' r.
now placed, and from that, judge of the one in whicîi
you will soon be.
I know that this state of relaxation and infidelity trou-
bles and disturbs you ; that you say every day, that no-
thing can bestow greater happiness than an abstraction
from every thing worldly ; and that you envy the desti-
ny of those Christians, who give themselves up to God
without reserve, and no longer keep terms with the
world. But you are deceived : it is not the faith or the
fervour of these faithful Christians you envy ; you only
covet in their lot, that happiness and peace which they
enjoy in the service of their Master, and which you are
incapable of partaking ; you only envy them that insen-
sibility and happy indifference, to which they have at^
tained, for the world and every thing it esteems, your
love for which occasions all your troubles, remorse, and
secret anguish ; but you envy them not the sacrifices they
were under the necessity of making, to arrive at their
present state of peace and tranquillity ; you envy them
not the trials they have undergone, in order to merit the
precious gift of a lively and fervent faith ; you envy the
happiness of their state, but you w ould not wish it to
cost you the illusion and sensuality of your own.
The second consequence 1 draw from the refusal of
the grace of protection to the lukewarm Christian, is,
that the yoke of our Saviour, to him, becomes burden-
some, hard, and insupportable. For, my brethren, by
the irregularity of our nature, having lost all taste for
righteousness and truth, which, in a state of innocence,
formed the happiness of man, we no longer have any
feeling or desire, but for objects which gratify the senses
and passions. The duties of the law of God, which re-
call us from the senses to the spirit, and make us sacri-
STATE OF LUKEWARMjYESS, 139
fice the present impressions of pleasure to the hope of
future promises ; these duties, I say, soon fatigue our
^veak nature, because they are continual efforts Ave make
against ourselves. It requires the unction of grace,
therefore, to soften the yoke ; it is necessary that grace
should spread secret consolations over its bitterness, and
change the sadness of duty into a holy and sensible joyo
Now the lukewarm soul, deprived of this unction, feels
only tlie weight of the yoke, without the consolations
whicli soften it : In this manner, all the duties of piety
and religion become insipid to you ; works of salvation
become wearisome ; your conscience, restless and em-
barrassed by your relaxation and infidelity, of which
you cannot prove the innocence, no longer allows you to
taste either peace or joy in the service of God. You
feel all the weight of the duties, to which some remains
of faith, and love of ease, hinder you from being unfaith-
ful ; but you feel not the secret testimony of a clear con-
science, which soothes and supports the fervent Chris-
tian : You shun, perhaps, certain occasions of pleasure»,
where innocence is suie of being shipwrecked ; but you
only experience in the retreat wliich divides you from
them, a wearisoraeness, and a more lively desire for
those pleasures from which you have forced yourself to
refrain. You pray, but prayer is now become fatiguing 5
you frequent the society of virtuous persons, but their
company becomes so irksome, as almost to disgust you
with virtue itself : The slightest violence you do to your
inclinations for the sake of heaven, costs you such ef-
forts, that the pleasures and amusements of the world
must be applied to, to refresh and invigorate you after
this fatigue ; the smallest mortification exhausts your bo-
dy, casts uneasiness and chagrin on your temper, and
140 sERMOj\r V.
only consoles you by an immediate determinatlpu to a=
bandon its practice. You live unhappy, and without
consolation, because you deprive yourself of a world
you love, and substitute in its place duties which you
love not ; your whole life is but a melancholy weari-
someness, and a perpetual source of disgust with your-
self; you resemble the Israelites in the desart, disgusted,
on the one part, with the manna upon which the Lord
had ordered them to subsist, and, on the other, not da-
ring to return to the food of the Egyptians, which they
still loved, and which the dread alone of the Almigh-
ty's anger induced them to deny themselves. Now, this
state of violence cannot endure ; we soon tire of any re-
mains of virtue, which do not quiet the heart, comfort
the reason, and even flatter our self-love ; we soon throw
off the remains of a yoke, which weighs us down, and
which we no longer caiTy through love, but for de-
cency's sake. It is so melancholy to be nothing at
all, as I may say ; neither pious nor worldly ; attached
neither to the world nor to Jesus Christ ; enjoying nei-
ther the pleasures of the senses, nor those of grace ; that
it is impossible this wearisome situation of indifference
and neutrality can be durable. An object to occupy
and interest it, is necessary to the heai;!;, and especially
to hearts of a certain character ; if not God, it will soon
be the world ; a heart, lively, eager, always in extremes,
and such as the generality of men possess, cannot be fix-
ed but by the feelings ; and to be continually disgusted
with virtue, shows a heart already prepared to yield to
the attractions of vic^.
1 know, in the first place. That there are lazy and
indolent souls, who seem to keep themselves in this state
of equilibration and insensibility ; who evince no deci-
àTATE OF LUKEWARMJ^ESS. IM
sion, either for the world or virtue ; who appear equally
distant, by their dispositions, from tlie ardours of a faith-
ful piety, or the excesses of profane guilt ; who, in the
midst of the pleasures of the world, preserve a stock of
prudence and regularity, which proves the existence of
some remains of virtue ; and in the midst of their reli-
gious duties, a fund of carelessness and laxity, which
still breathes the air and maxims of the world. These
are indolent and tranquil hearts, animated in nothing ;
in wliom indolence almost supplies the place of virtue,
and who, notwithstanding they never arrive at that de=
gree of piety which the faithful accomplish, never go
those lengths in iniquity, to which criminal and aban-
doned souls proceed.
1 know it, my brethren, but I likewise know, that this
indolence of heart defends us only from crimes which
would cost us trouble, makes us avoid only those plea-
sures which we would be obliged to purchase at the ex-
pense of OUI" tranquillity, and which the love of ease alone
prevents us from enjoying. It leaves us virtuous only
in the eyes of men, who confound the indolence which
dreads embarrassment with the piety which flies from
vice ; but it does not defend us against ourselves, against
a thousand illicit desires, a thousand criminal complian-
ces, a thousand passions, more secret and less painful,
because shut up in the heart ; from jealousies, which de-
vour us ; ambition, which domineers over us : pride,
which corrupts us ; a desire of pleasure, which engros-
ses us : an excess of self-love, which is the principle of
all our conduct, and infects all our actions ; that is to say,
thattliis indolence delivers up our heart to all its hidden
foibles, at the same time that it serves as a check against
t\ie most striking and tumultuous passions, and that what
14:^ SERMOjy V.
appears only indolence to men, is in the eyes of God a
secret ignominy and corruption.
I know in the second place, That this love of piety,
and this unction which softens the practice of religious
duties, is a gift frequently refused even to holy and faith-
ful Christians, But there are three essential points of
difference between the faithful soul, to whom the Lord
denies the sensible consolations of piety, and the luke-
warm and worldly one, whom the weight of the yoke
oppresses, and who is incapable of enjoying the things
of God.
The first is. That a faithful Christian, in spite of his
repugnancies, preserving a firm and solid faith, finds his
state, and the exemption from guilt in which he lives,
since touched by God, a thousand times more happy
than that in which he lived when delivered up to his pas-
sions; and, penetrated with horror at his former excès»
ses, he would not change his lot, or return to his former
vices, for all the pleasures of the earth : In place of
which, the lukewarm and unûiitliful heart, disgusted with
virtue, regards with envy the pleasures and vain happi-
ness of the w orld ; and his disgusts being only the con-
sequence and sufferings of his weakness, and the luke-
warmncss of his faith, to plunge into sin begins to appear
as the only resource left him from weariness, and the
gloominess of piety.
The second difference is, That the faithful Christian,
in the midst of his disgusts and hardships, at least bears
a conscience which reproaches him not with guilt : He
at least is supported by the testimony of his own heart,
and by a certain degree of internal peace, which, even
though it may not warm nor be sensible, fails not, how-
«'vrr. to establish within us a calm which we never ex-
STATE OF LUKEWARMJ\rESS, 143
perienced in the paths of error ; on the contrary, the
lukewarm and unfaithful man, allowing himself, against
the testimony of his own heart, a thousand daily trans-
gressions, of which he knows not the wickedness, bears
always an uneasy and suspicious conscience ; and being
no longer sustained by love for his duties, nor the peace
and testimony of his conscience, this state of agitation
and weariness soon terminates in the miserable peace
of sin.
The last reason is, That the troubles of the faithful
Christian being only trials, to which, for his purification,
God exposes him, he supplies, in a thousand ways, the
sensible consolations of virtue which he refuses him ; he
replaces them by a more powerful protection, by a mer-
ciful attention to remove every danger which might se-
duce him, and by more abundant succours of grace; for
the Almighty wishes neither to lose nor discourage him ;
He wishes only to prove him, and make him expiate, by
the afflictions and hardships of virtue, the unjust plea-
sures of sin : But the disgusts of an infidel soul ai^e not
trials, they are punishments ; it is not a merciful God
who suspends the consolations of grace, without suspen-
ding grace itself: it is not a tender father, who supplies
by the solidity of his tenderness, and by effectual assis^
tance, the apparent rigours he is under the necessity of
using : It is a severe judge, who only begins to deprive
the criminal of a thousand indulgences, because the sen-
tence of death is prepared for him. The hardships of
virtue find a thousand resources in virtue itself; those of
lukewarmness can find them only in the deceitful plea-
sures of vice.
Such, my brethren, is the inevitable fate of luke
warmness in the ways of God ; the misery of losins;
144 SERMOJV V.
righteousness. Will you tell us, after this, that you
wish to practice only that kind of virtue which may en-
dure ; that these great exertions of zeal cannot be sup-
ported ; that it is much better not to begin so high, and
by these means to accomplish the end ; and that they
never go far who exhaust themselves at the beginning of
their journey.
I know that every excess, even in piety, comes not
from the Spirit of God, which is a spirit of wisdom and
discretion ; that the zeal which overturns the order of
our state and duties, is not the piety which comes from
above, but an illusion arising from ourselves ; that indis-
cretion is a source of false virtue ; and that we often give
to vanity what we think is given to truth.
But I tell you from God, that to persevere in His
ways, we must give ourselves up to Him w ithout re-
serve : That in order to sustain the fidelity due to the
essential parts of our duty, we must unceasingly endea-
vour to weaken the passions which oppose it ; and that
keeping terms with these passions, under the pretext of
not going too far, is to dig our own grave. I tell
you, that it is only the faithful and fervent Christians,
who, not contented with shunning sin, shun also every
thing which can lead to it ; that it is those alone who
persevere, who sustain themselves, who honour piety by
a steady, equal, and uniform conduct ; and, on the con-
trary, it is lukewarm and relaxed souls, who have be-
gun their penitence, by limiting their piety, and accom-
modating it to the pleasures and maxims of the world ;
it is those souls who draw back, who belie themselves,
and who dishonour piety, by their inconstancy and ine-
quality of conduct ; by a life, blended sometimes with
virtue and retirement, and at others, with the world and
STATE OF LUKEWARMXESS. 145
weakness : And I appeal to yourselves, my brethren,
when you see in the world a person relax from his first
fervour, gradually mix with the pleasures and societies
he had lately so scrupulously and severely denied him-
self; insensibly abate his love of retirement, his modesty,
circumspection, prayers, and exactness in the observ-
ance of his religious duties, do you not say to yourselves,
that he is not far from returning to what he formerly
was ? Are not these relaxations regarded by you as a
prelude to his ruin; and do you not consider that virtue
is nearly extinct, when once you see it weakened ? Do
you even require so much to rouse your censures, and
malicious forebodings of impiety ? Unjust that you are,
you condemn a cold and unfaithful virtue, while you
condemn us for requiring of you a virtue faithful and
fervent I You pretend, that in order to continue, you
must begin with moderation, while you prophecy that a
total departure from virtue is not far distant, when once
it begins to be followed with coolness and negligence.
From a relaxation alone, therefore, we are to dread a
return to our former courses, and a departure from vir-
tue : It is not by giving ourselves up without reserve to
God, that we become disgusted with piety, and are forsa-
ken by Him : The way to come gloriously off in battle, is
not by sparing, but overcoming the enemy: There is
no dread, therefore, of doing too much, lest we should
be unable to support it ; on the contrary, to merit the
grace necessary to our support, we ought, from the first,
to leave nothing undone. What an illusion, brethren !
We dread zeal, as dangerous to perseverance ; and it is
zeal alone which can obtain it : We fix ourselves in a
lukewarm and commodious life, as the only one Avhicli
can endure ; and it is the only one which proves false r
Vol. T. ir
146 sEitMo:N' f.
We shun fidelity, as the rock of piety ; and piety with^
out fidelity is never far from shipwreck.
It is thus that lukewarmness removes from the infidel
soul the favour of protection ; the absence of which, de=
priving our faith of all its strength, and the yoke of Jesus
Christ of all its consolations, we are left in a state of
such imbecility, that to be lost, innocence requires only
to be attacked. But if the loss of righteousness is inevi-
table, by reason of the grace which is withdrawn, it \^
still more so, on account of the passions which are
strengthened.
Part II. What renders vigilance so necessary to
Christian piety, is, that all the passions which oppose
themselves in us to the law of God, die only, as I may
say, with us. We undoubtedly are able to weaken
them, by the assistance of grace, and a fervent and live-
ly faith ; but the roots always continue in the heart : we
always carry within us the germs of the same errors our
tears have effaced. Guilt may be extinguished in our
hearts; but sin, as the Apostle says, that is to say, the
corrupt inclination which has formed our guilt, inhabits
and lives there still : And that fund of corruption which
removed us so far from God, is still left us in our peni-
tence, to serve as a continual exercise to virtue ; to ren-
der us, by the continual occasions of combat it excites for
us, more worthy of an eternal crown ; to humble our
pride ; to keep us in remembrance that our present life
is a scene of war and danger ; and by a destiny inev-
itable to our nature, that there is only one step between
relaxation and guilt.
It is true, that the grace of Jesus Christ is given us
to repress those corrupt inclinations which survive our
STATE OF LUKEWJRMJ^ESS. 14^
conversion ; but in a state of lukewarmness, as 1 have
already said^ grace offering us only common succours,
and the grace of protection, of which we are become un-
worthy, being either more rare, or entirely suspended ;
it is evident that the passions must acquire new strength.
But I say, that not only the passions are strengthened, in
a lukewarm and infidel life, because the grace of protec-
tion which checked them is more rare, but likeAvise by
the state itself of relaxation and coldness ; for that life
being only a continued indulgence of all the passions ; a
pliant weakness in giving up to a certain degree, every
thing which flatters the appetites ; a watchfulness even
of self-love, to remove whatever might repress or restrain
them ; and a perpetual use of all things capable of in-
flaming them — it is evident, that by these means they
must daily acquire new force.
In a word, my brethren, we are not to imagine, that
in pushing ouf indulgence for our passions only to cer-
tain allowed lengths, we appease tliem, as I may say ;
that we allow sufficient to satisfy them, and not enough
to stain our soul, or carry trouble and remorse into our
conscience ; or fancy that we can ever attain a certain
degree of equilibrium between virtue and sin, where, on
the one side, our passions are satisfied by the indulgence
allowed them, and, on the other, our conscience is tran-
quil, by the absence of guilt, which we shun. For such
is the plan adopted by the lukewarm Christian : Fa-
vourable to his indolence, because he equally banislies
every thing, either in virtue or in sin which can disturb
him ; to the passions, he refuses whatever might trouble
his conscience ; and to virtue, whatever might be disa-
greeable to, or mortify his self-love. But this state of
equilibrium is a perfect chimera. The passions know
14?H ^EHMOjV v.
no limits or bounds in guilt ; how^ therefore, could they
possibly be restrained by those of the lukewarm soul ?
Even the utmost excess cannot restrain or fix them ; how
then, could simple indulgences do it? Tlie more you
grant, the more you deprive yourself of the power to re-
fuse them any thing. The true secret of appeasing, is
not by favouring them to a certain degree ; it is by oppo-
sing them in every thing; every indulgence only renders
them more fierce and unmanageable ; it is as a little water
thrown upon a great fire, which, far from extinguishing,
increases its fury : Every thing which flatters tlie pas-
sions, renders them more keen, and diminishes the pro-
bability of being able to conquer them.
Now, such is the state of a lukewarm and unfaithful
soul. It allows itself every animosity which extends not
to avowed revenge ; it justifies every pleasure, in which
guilt is not palpable ; it delivers itself up without reserve
to every worldly desire and gratification, by which no
individual, it supposes, is injured ; every omission, which
seems to turn on the arbitrary duties, or but slightly in-
terests the essential ones, it makes no scruple of; every
action of self-love, which leads not directly to guilt, it
regards as nothing ; all that nicety, with regard to rank
and glory, which is compatible with that moderation that
even the world requires, it regards as a merit. Now,
what happens in consequence of this ? Listen, and you
shall know ; and I beg you will attend to the following
reflections.
In the first place : All the inclinations within us,
which oppose themselves to order and duty, being con-
tinually strengthened, order and duty at last find in us
insurmountable difficulties ; in so much, that to attend to
them on any essential occasion, or when required by
STATE OF LUKEWARM.AŒSS. 149
the law of God^ is like remounting against the stream
of a rapid flood^ where the current drags us down, in
spite of every effort to the contrary : or like a furious and
unmanageable horse^ wliich it is necessary to stop short
on the brink of a precipice. Thus your sensibility to in-
juries, always too much awake, has pushed your pride
to such a height, that on an important occasion, when
you think your honour interested, and where you ought
to pardon, you are no longer master of your resentment:
Thus your care and anxiety to cultivate the esteem of
men, have so fortified in your heart the desire of world-
ly praise, that on any important occasion, Avhere it would
be necessary to sacrifice the vanity of their suffrages to
duty, and to expose yourself, for the good of your soul^ to
censure and derision, you will always prefer the inter-
ests of vanity to those of truth, and the opinions of men
will be much more powerful than the fear of God. Thus
those long continued anxieties with regard to fortune and
advancement, have rendered ambition so completely the
sovereign of your heart, that in any delicate conjuncture*
where the destruction of a rival would be necessary to-
wards your own elevation, you will never hesitate, but
will sacrifice your conscience to your fortune, and be un-
just towards your brother, lest you fail towards yourself.
Thus, in a word, to avoid a long detail, those suspicious
attachments, loose conversations, ridiculous compliances,
and desires of pleasing, too much attended to. have fil-
led you with dispositions so nearly allied to guilt and
debaucliery, that you are no longer capal)le of resistance
against any of their attacks ; the corruption prepared, by
the whole train of your past actions, will break out in an
instant : Your weakness w ill overcome your reflection :
Tour heart will revolt against glory, duty, and yourself.
150 sERMOj\r V.
We cannot long continue faithful, when we find in our-
selves so many dispositions to be otherwise.
Thus you will yourself be surprised at your own weak^
ness : You will again ask yourself, what are become of
all those dispositions of modesty and virtue, which for-
merly inspired you with such horror at sin ? You no
longer will know yourself : But this state of guilt will
gradually appear less frightful to you : The heart soon
justifies to itself whatever pleases it : Whatever is agi'ee-
able to us, does not long alarm us ; and to the misery of
a departure from virtue, you will add the misery of ig-
norance and security.
Such is the inevitable lot of a lukewarm and unfaith-
ful life, of passions which we have too much indulged ;
'' Young lions," says a prophet, " which have been nour-
^' ished without precaution, at length grow up, and de-
^^ vour the careless hand, which hag even assisted to
*^ strengthen and render them formidable : " The pas-
sions, arrived at a certain point, gain a complete ascen-
dancy : In vain do you then try to regain yourself : The
time is past ; you have fostered the profane fire in your
heart; it must at last break out ; you have nourished the
venom within you, it must now spread and gain upon
you ; and it is too late to apply remedies ; you should
have taken it in time ; at the commencement the disease
was not irremediable ; you have allowed it to strength-
en ; you have irritated it by every thing which could in-
flame, and render it incurable; it must now be conquer
or, and you the victim of your own indiscretion and in-
dulgence.
Do you not likewise say, my brethren, that you have
the best intentions in the world ; that you wish you could
îrct much better than you dn , and though you have the
STATE OF LUKEWARMJSTESS. 151
sîncerest desires for salvation, yet a thousand conjunct-
ures happen in life, where we forget all our good inten-
tions, and must be saints to resist their impressions? This
is exactly what we tell you ; that in spite of all your
pretended good intentions, if you do not fly, struggle,
watch, pray, and continually keep command over your-
self, a thousand occasions will occur, where you Avill no
longer be master of your own weakness : This is what
we tell you, that nothing but a mortified and watchful
life can place us beyond the reach of temptation and dan-
ger ; that it is ridiculous to suppose we shall continue
faithful, in those moments when violently attacked, when
we bear a heart weakened, wavering, and already on the
verge of falling ; that it is only the house built upon a
rock that can resist the winds and the tempest ; and, in
a word, that we must be holy, and firmly established in
virtue, to live free from guilt.
And when 1 say that we must be holy; Alas! my
brethren, the most faithful and fervent Christians, with
every inclination mortified as far as the frailty of our na-
ture will permit; imaginations purified by prayer, and
minds nourished in virtue, and meditation on the law of
God, frequently find themselves in such terrible situa-
tions, that their hearts sink within them ; their imagina-
tions become troubled and deranged ; they see themselves
in those melancholy agitations, where they float for a
long time between victory and death ; and, like a vessel
struggling against the waves, in the midst of an enraged
ocean, they can only look for safety from the Almighty
Commander of winds and tempests. And you, with a
heart already half-seduced, with inclinations at least bor-
dering upon guilt, would wish your weakness to be proof
against all attacks, and the most powerful temptations
15/S seraiojY v.
to find you always tranquil and inaccessible ! You would
wish, with your lukewarm^ sensual^ and worldly morals,
that on these occasions your soul should be gifted with
that strengtli and faith, which even the most tender and
watchful piety sometimes cannot give Î You would wish
passions flattered, nourished, and strengthened, to remain
tractable, quiet, and cold, in the presence of objects most
capable of lighting them up ! Those which, after yea^s of
austerities, and a life devoted to prayer and watching, a-
wake sometimes in a moment far even from danger, and
by melancholy examples, make the most upright feel,
that we should never be off our guard, and that the high-
est point of virtue is sometimes the instant which pre-
cedes a departure from, and total loss of it. Such is our
lot, my brethren, to be quick-sighted only towards
the dangers which regard our fortune or our life, and not
even to know those which threaten our salvation. But
let us undeceive ourselves : To shun guilt, something
more is required than the lukewarmness and indolence
of virtue ; and vigilance is the only means left us by our
Saviour to preserve our innocence. This is the first
reflection.
A second reflection to be made on this truth is, that
the passions, daily strengthening in a lukewarm and in-
fidel life, not only does duty find in us insurmountable
repugnancies, but guilt likewise, as I may say, softens
itself; and at last we feel no more repugnance to it, than
to the simplest fault. Indeed, by these daily infidelities
inseparable from lukewarmness, the heart, a-s if by in-
sensible steps, at last arrives at those dangerous limits,
which by a single line, separate life from death, guilt
from innocence, and makes the final step, almost with-
out perceiving it : Only a little way remaining for it to
STATE OF LUKEWARMjYESS. 153
go, and having no occasion for any new exertion to ac-
complish it, it does not believe it has exceeded its for»
mer bounds. It had filled itself with dispositions so
nearly bordering on guilt, that it has brought forth
iniquity without pain, repugnance, visible movement,
or even perceiving it itself; like to a dying person,
whom the languors of a long and painful malady have
so nearly brought to his end, that the departing sigh
resembles those which have preceded, it costs him no
greater effort than the others, and even leaves the spec-
tators uncertain whether his last moment is come, or if
he still breathes : And this is what renders the state of
lukewarm and infidel souls still more dangerous, that
they are commonly dead to grace, without knowing it
themselves ; they become enemies to God, while they
still live with Him as with a friend ; they are still in the
commerce of holy things, when they have lost the grace
which entitles us to approach them.
Thus, let those souls for whom this discourse is intend-
ed, no longer deceive themselves, because they think they
have hitherto avoided a gross departure from virtue; their
state before God is undoubtedly only more dangerous ;
perhaps the most formidable danger of lukewarmness is,
that, already dead in the sight of God, they live, in their
own opinion, without any visible or marked guilt ; that
they compose themselves tranquilly in death, depending
on an appearance of life which comforts them ; that to
the danger of their situation, they add a false peace,
which confirms them in this path of illusion and dark-
ness ; in a word, that the Lord, by terrible and secret
judgments, strikes them with blindness, and punishes the
corruption of their heart, by permitting them to be igno^
ram of it. A gross fall from virtue, if I may venture to
' Yol. I. 18
i51 (iERMOjX V.
say soj would to them be a mark of the goodness and
mercy of God : They would then at least open their
eyes; naked and manifest, guilt would then carry trou»
ble and uneasiness into their conscience ; the disease at
last discovered, would perhaps induce them to have re-
course to the remedy ; in place of which, this life, appa-
rently regular, composes and calms them, renders use-
less the example of fervent Christians, persuades them
that this great fervour is unnecessary ; that it is much
more the effect of temperament than of grace ; that it is
an emotion of zeal, rather than of duty ; and makes them
consider, as vain exaggerations, all that we say, w ith re-
gard to a lukewarm and infidel life. This is the second
reflection.
Finally, the last reflection to be made on this great
truth, is, that such is the nature of our heart, that it al-
ways stops much below what it at first proposed. A thou-
sand times we have formed pious resolutions ; we have
projected to carry to a certain point the detail of our du-
ties and conduct, but the execution has always fallen
much below the ardour of our projects, and has rested
at a degree much beneath the one to which we wished
to raise ourselves : Thus, the lukewarm Christian, pro- ,
posing to himself no higher point of virtue than to shun
guilt, looking precisely to precept, that is to say, to that
rigorous and precise point of the law, immediately be-
low which is prevarication and death ; he infallibly rests
below, and never reaches that essential point which he
had proposed to himself : It is, therefore, an incontesti-
ble maxim, that we must undertake much, to execute lit-
tle, and look very high, to attain at least the middle.
Now, this maxim, so sure with regard even to the most
just, is much more so with respect to the lukewarm and
STATE OF LUKEWARMJ^'ESS. ±5^
unfaithful soul ; for coldness more strongly binding all
his ties^ and augmenting the weight of his corruption
and misery^ it is he particularly who ought to take this
grand flight, in order to attain at least the lowest degree;
and in his counsels with himself, propose perfection^ if
he wishes to rest, even at the observance of precept. A-
bove all, it is to him that we may truly say, that by set=
tling in his mind, only to shun guilt, loaded as he is with
the weight of his coldness and infidelities, he w ill alw ays
alight at a place very distant from the one he expected
to reach ; and the line of guilt being immediately below
this commodious and sensual virtue, the very same ef-
forts he made, as he thought to shun it, will only serve
to conduct him to it. These are reasons, drawn entire-
ly from the weakness w hich the strengthened passions
leave to the lukewarm and infidel soul; and which in^
evitably lead it to ruin.
The only reason, however, you allege to us for perse-
vering in this dangerous state, is, that you are w eak, and
totally unable to support a more retired, limited, morti-
fied, and perfect manner of life. But surely, it is because
you are w eak, that is to say, full of disgust for virtue,
of love for the w^orld and of subjection to your appetites,
that a retired and mortified life becomes indispensable.
It is because you are weak, that you ought with more
caution to shun every danger ; take a greater command
over yourself; pray, watch, refuse yourself every impro-
per gratification, and attain even to an holy excess
of zeal and fervour, in order to raise a barrier against
your weakness. You are weak — And because you are
weak, you think you are entitled to expose yourself more
than another; to dread danger less; with more tran=^
quillity and indifference, to neglect the necessary reme-
i56 l^EUMOJ^ V.
dies ; to allow more to your appetites ; to presei*ve a
stronger attachment to the world, and every thing which
can corrupt the heart ! What an illusion ! You make
your weakness, then, the title of your security ; in the
necessities you are under to watch and pray, you find,
then, the privilege of dispensing with them ! And since
what period is it that the sick are authorized to allow
themselves greater excesses, and make use of less precau-
tion, than those who enjoy a perfect health? Privation has
always been the part of the weak and infirm ; and to al-
lege your weakness as a right of dispensation from a
more fervent and Christian life, is like enumeratins: vour
complaints, in order to persuade us that you have no oc-
casion for medicine. This is the second reason, drawn
from the passions, which are strengthened in a state of
lukewarm uess, and which proves, that this state always
ends in a departure from virtue, and the loss of righ-
teousness.
To all these reasons 1 should add a third, drawn
from the external succours of religion, necessary to the
support of piety, and which become useless to the luke-
warm and infidel soul.
The Holy Sacrament is not only of no utility, but
even dangerous to him, either by the coldness with
which he approaches it, or by the vain confidence with
which it inspires him : It is no longer a resource for
him ; it has lost its effect, like medicines too frequently
made use of; it amuses his languor, but cannot cure
him : It is like the food of the strong and healthy,
which, so far from re-establishing, completes the ruin of
the weak stomach : It is the breath of the Holy Spirit,
which, unable to re- illuminate the still smoaking spark,
«entirely extinguishes it 5 that is to say, that the grace of
STATE OF LUKEWAIIMJ^ESS. 157
the Holy Sacrament, received in a lukewarm and infidel
heart, no longer operating there an increase of life and
strength, never fails, sooner or later, to operate the death
and condemnation attached to the abuse of these divine
remedies.
Prayer, that channel of grace, that nourishment to a
faithful heart, that sweetener of piety, that refuge against
all attacks of the enemy, that cry of an affected soul,
which renders the Lord so attentive to its necessities ;
prayer, without which the Almighty no longer makes
himself felt within us, without which we no longer know
our Father, no longer render thanks to our Benefac-
tor, nor appease our Judge, expose no longer our
wounds to our physician, and live without God in the
world ; prayer, in a word, so necessary to the most es-
tablished virtue, is to the lukewarm Christian no longer
but the wearisome occupation of a distracted mind, of a
heart barren, and shared between a thousand foreign af-
fections. He no longer experiences that love, those con-
solations, which are the fruit of a fervent and faithful life:
He no longer, as if with a new light, sees tlie holy truths
which confirm the soul in its contempt for the world, and
love for the things of heaven ; and which, after its de-
parture hence, make it regard with new disgust every
thing which foolish man admires : He leaves it, no lon-
ger filled with that lively faith which reckons as nothing
all the obstacles and disgusts of virtue, and w ith a holy
zeal devours all its sorrows : He no longer feels, after
leaving it, more love for his duty, and horror at the
world ; more determination to fly from its dangers ; more
light to know its nothingness and misery, and strength
to hate and struggle with himself; more terror for the
judgments of God. and compunction for his own weak-
158 s'ERMojsr r.
iiess : He leaves it, only more fatigued than before with
virtue, more filled with the phantoms of the world, which
even at the moment when at the feet of the Almighty, it
appears agitate more strongly his imagina» ion, disgraced
by all those images; more happy, by being relieved of
a burdensome duty, where he has experienced nothing
so agreeable as the pleasure of finding it at an end ;
more eager, by amusements and infidelities, to supply
this moment of weariness and pain ; in a word, more
distant from God, whom he has irritated by the infidel-
ity and irreverence of his prayer. Such, my brethren,
is the fruit which he reaps from it. Finally, all the ex-
ternal duties of religion, which support and rouse piety,
are no longer to the lukewarm Christian but dead and
inanimate customs, w here liis heart is not ; where there
is more of habit, than of love or spirit of piety ; and
where the only disposition he brings, is the sense of the
w eariness of the repetition.
Thus, my brethren, the grace of this soul, being con-
tinually attacked and weakened, either by the practices
of the world, which it allows itself, or by those of piety,
which it abuses; either by sensual objects, which nour-
ish its corruption, or by those of religion, which increase
its disgusts ; either by the pleasures which enervate it,
or by the duties which fatigue it; all uniting to make it
bend towards ruin, and nothing supporting it : Alas Î
what fate can it promise itself? Can the lamp without
oil long continue to give light? The tree which no lon-
ger draws nourishment from the earth, can it fail to with-
er and be devoted to the fire ? Now, such is the situa-
tion of the lukewarm Christian ; entirely delivered up
to himself, nothing supports him ; surrounded by weari-
ness and sources of dis2:ust. nothins; re-animates him : full
SJTATE OF LUKEWARMjYESS, 159
éf weakness and of languor, nothing protects him ; every
consolation of the just soul, is distasteful to him ; every
thing which gives support to a faithful Christian, dis-
gusts and overpowers him ; whatever renders the yoke
more easy to others, makes his more burdensome ; anci
the succours of piety now become sources of fatigue, or
of his crimes. Now, in this state, O my God ! almost a-
bandoued by Thy grace ; tired of Thy yoke ; disgusted
with himself, as well as with virtue; weakened by disea-
ses and their remedies, staggering at every step — a bïeath
overturns liim, he himself leans towards his fall, without
any additional or foreign impression ; and to see him
fall, there is no necessity to see him attacked.
These are the reasons which prove the certainty of
the loss of righteousness in a lukewarm and infidel life.
But are so many proofs necessary, my dear hearer, when
your own misfortunes have so sadly instructed you?
Remember whence you are fallen, as the Holy Spirit of
God formerly said to a lukewarm and infidel soul : Re-
mount to the source of the disorders under which you
still bend : You will find it in the negligence and infi-
delity of which we speak. The growth of passion too
feebly checked ; dangerous temptations too little avoided ;
practices of piety too frequently omitted or despised ;
convenience too sensually sought after ; desires of plea-
sing too much listened to ; dangerous writings too much
sought after ; the source is almost imperceptible, the tor-
rent of iniquity proceeding from it, has completely inun-
dated the capacity of your soul : it was only a spark
which has lighted up this great conflagration ; it was a
morsel of leaven, which in the end, has fermented and
corrupted the whole mass. You never believed it pos-
sible, that you could be what at present you are : What
160 SE RM i) M V.
ever was said to you on this subject, you heard as exag=
geratioiis of zeal and enthusiasm ; you would then have
come forward of your own accord, in order to clear your-
self of certain steps, for which you now feel not the smal-
lest remorse : Remember whence you are fallen ; con-
sider the depth of the abyss into which you are plunged;
it is relaxation and slight infidelities^ which by degrees
have conducted you to it. Once more remember it, and
see if that can be denominated a sure or durable state^
which has brought you to the precipice.
Such is the usual artifice of Satan ; he never at first
proposes guilt ; that would frighten away his prey, and
remove it beyond the reach of his artifices : Too well
he knows the road by which the heart is most accessible ;
he knows that he must gradually confirm the timid con-
science against the horror of guilt, and propose nothing
at first but honest [mrposes, and certain limits in pleas,
ure : It is not boldly, like the lion, he at first attacks ;
it is warily, like the serpent : He does not lead you
straight to the gulf; he conducts you there by winding
paths. No, my brethren, crimes are never the first es-
says of the heart. David was imprudent and slothful
before he became an adulterer; Solomon had allowed
himself to be seduced and enervated by the delights and
magnificence of royalty, before he publicly appeared in
the midst of lewd women ; Judas had given up his heart
to money, before he set a price upon his Master ; Peter
was presumptuous, before he renounced the truth. Vice
has its progress, as well as virtue ; as the day, says the
prophet, instructs the day, thus the night gives melan-
choly lessons to the night ; and there is not much inter^
val between a state which suspends all the grace of pro
tection, fortifies all the passions, renders useless all the
succours of piety, and a state where it is entirely extinct.
STATE OF LUKÉWARMJ^ESS. 161
What, tlien, my dear hearer, can confirm or comfort
you in this life of negligence and infidelity ? Is it that
exemption from guilt you have hitherto preserved ? But
I have shown you, that it is either guilt itself, or that it
will not fail soon to lead you to it : Is it the love of ease?
But in that state you enjoy neither tlie pleasures of the
world, nor the consolations of virtue : Is it the assurance
that the Almighty requires no more of you ? But how
can the lukewarm and unfaithful Christian satisfy or
please Him, when from his moutli lie rejects him ? Is it
the irregularity in which the generality of men live,
who carry if to an excess which you avoid ? But their
fate is perhaps less to be mourned, and less desperate
than your own : They at least know tlieir malady, while
you regard your own as a state of perfect health. Is it
the dread of being unable to support a more mortified,
watchful, and Christian life ? But since you have hith-
erto been able to support some remains of virtue and in-
nocence, without the comforts and consolations of grace,
and in spite of the weariness and disgust which your
lukewarmness has spread through all your duties ; what
will it be when the Spirit of God shall soften your yoke,
and when a more fervent and faithful life shall have res-
tored to you all the grace and consolations of which your
lukewarmness has deprived you ? Piety is never sad
or insupportable, but when it is cold and unfaithful.
Hise, then, says a propliet, wicked and slothful soul ;
break the fatal charm which lulls and chains thee to
thine indolence. The Lord whom thou believest to serve,
because thou dost not openly affront him, is not the God
of the wicked, but of the faithful ; He is not the reward-
er of idleness and sloth, but of tears, watchings, and
combats : He establisheth not in his abode, and in his
y^A. L 19
everlasting city, the useless, but the vigilant and labori-
ous servant ; and His kingdom, says the Apostle, is not
of flesh and blood, that is to say, of an unworthy eflPem-
inacy, and a life devoted to the appetites, but the strength
and virtue of God ; namely, a continued vigilance ; a
generous sacrifice of all our inclinations ; a constant con-
tempt for the things of this world ; and a tender and ar-
dent desire for those invisible blessings which fade not,
nor ever pass away : Which may God, in his infinite
mercy, grant to all assembled here. Amen,
( m )
SERMON VL
ON EVILSPEAKING
John ii. 24,
But Jésus did not commît himself unto them i hecaust
He knew all men.
These were the same Pharisees^ who a little before
had been vilifying to the people the actions of Jesus
Christ, and endeavouring to poison the purity and sane-
tity of his words, wha now make a show of believing
in Him, and classing themselves among his disciples.
And such is the character of the evil-speaker ; under the
mark of esteem, and the flattering expressions of friend-
ship, to conceal the gall and bitterness of slander.
Now, although this is perhaps the only vice which no
circumstance can palliate, it is the one we are most in»
genious in concealing from ourselves, and to which pie»
164! SERMOJ^ VI.
ty and the world show in these times the greatest indul=
geoce. Not that the character of a slanderer is not equally
odious to men, as, according to the expression of the Ho=
ly ^Spirit, it is abominable in the sight of God ; but in
that character they comprise only particular defamers of
a blacker and more avowed malignity, who deal their
blows indiscriminately, and without art; and who, with
sufficient malice to censure, are destitute of the wit ne-
cessary to please : Now, the defamers of that descrip-
tion are more rare ; and had we only them to address
ourselves to, it would be sufficient at present to point
out, how unworthy of reason and religion this vice
is, to inspire with a just detestation of it^ those who feel
themselves guilty.
But there is another description of slanderers, who
condemn the vice, yet allow themselves the practice of
it; who, without consideration, defame their brethren,
yet applaud themselves for circumspection and modera-
tion ; who drive the arrow to the heart, but, because it
is more brilliant and piercing, perceive not the wound it
has made. Now, defamers of this sort are every where
to be found ; the world is filled with them ; even the ho-
ly asylums arc not free : This vice is the bond of union
to the assemblies of sinners ; it often finds its way even
into the society of the just ; and we may safely say, that
all have erred from the straight road ; and there is not one
who has preserved his tongue pure, and his lips unde-
filed.
It is proper, then, my brethren, to expose on this occa-
sion the illusion of the pretexts made use of every day in
the world, in justification of this vice, and to attack it in
the points where you believe it most innocent; for, were I
to describe it to you, in general, with all its meannegs
OK EVIL-SPEAKIA^G. f 65
and irreparable cruelty, you would no longer apply it
to yourselves ; and far from inspiring you with horror at
it^ 1 should lj€ accessary towards persuading you, that
you are free from its guilt
Now, what are the pretexts, which, in your eyes,
soften or justify the vice of evil speaking ? In the first
place, it is the trivial nature of the faults you censure ;
V. e persuade ourselves, that as it is not a matter of cul-
pability, there cannot therefore be much harm in censur-
ing it. In the second place, the public notoriety of the
faults which we reprehend, induces us to believe that no
loss of reputation can ensue from our discourses : last-
ly, zeal for truth, and the glory of God, which does not
permit us to be silent on those disorders which dishon-
our Him. Now, to these three pretexts, let us oppose
three incontrovertible truths. To the pretext of the
lightness of the faults ; that the more the faults which
you censure are light, the more is the slander unjust.
To the pretext of the public notoriety ; that the more the
faults of our brethren are known, the more cruel is the
slander which censures them. To the pretext of zeal ;
that the same charity, which, in piety, makes us hate
sinners, makes us likewise cover the multitude of their
faults.
Part 1. The tongue, says tlie Apostle Jame^, is a
devouring fire, a world of iniquity, an unruly evil, full
of deadly poison. And behold, what I would have ap-
plied to the language of the evil-speaker, had 1 underta-
ken to give you a just and natural idea of all the enormity
of this vice : I would have said, that the tongue of the
slanderer is a devouring fire, which tarnishes whatever
it touches ; which exercises its fury on the good grain»
166 :^ERMojsi' VI.
equally as on the chaff; on the profane, as on the sa-
cred ; which, wherever it passes, leaves only desolation
and ruin; digs even into the bowels of the earth, and
fixes itself on things the most hidden ; turns into vile
ashes, what, only a moment before, had appeared to us
so precious and brilliant; acts with more violence and
danger than ever, when it was apparently smothered up,
and almost extinct ; which blackens what it cannot con-
sume, and sometimes sparkles and delights before it des-
troys. I would have told you, that evil speaking is au
assemblage of iniquity ; a secret pride, which discovers
to us the mote in our brother^s eye, but hides the beam
which is in our own ; a mean envy, which, hurt at the
talents or prosperity of others, makes them the subject
of its censures, and studies to dim the splendor of what-
ever outshines itself; a disguised hatred, which sheds^
in its speeches, the hidden venom of the heart ; an un-
worthy duplicity, which praises to the face, and tears in
pieces behind the back ; a shameful levity, which has
no command over itself, or words, and often sacrifices
both fortune and comfort to the imprudence of an amusing
conversation ; a deliberate barbarity, which wounds
your absent brother ; a scandal, with which you be-
come a subject of shame and sin to those who listen ta
you ; an injustice, where you ravish from your brother
what is dearest to iiim. I would have said, that slan-
der is a restless evil, which disturbs society, spreads
dissension through both city and country, dissevers the
strictest friendships, is the source of hatred and revenge,,
fills, whatever it enters, with disturbance and confusion,
and is every where an enemy to peace, comfort, and
Christian good-breeding. Lastly, 1 would have added,
that it is a sourec of deadly poison : whatever flows from
ojv evilspe^kijyg 167
it is infectedj and infects all that it approaclies ; that e-
ven its praises are impoisoned, its applauses malicious,
its silence criminal, its gestures, motions, and looks,
have all their venom, and spread it each in their way.
Behold, what in this discourse it would have been my
duty, more at large, to have exposed to your view, had
I not proposed only to paint to you the vileness of the
vice, which I am now going to combat ; but, as I have
already said, these are only general invectives, which
none apply to themselves. The more odious the vice is
represented, the less do you perceive yourselves concer-
ned in it ; and though you acknowledge the principle,
you make no use of it in the regulation of your manners:
because, in these general paintings, we always find fea-
tures which resemble us not. I wish, therefore, to con^
fine myself, at present, to the single object of making
you feel all the iniquity of that description of slander,
which you think the most innocent ; and lest you should
not feel yourselves connected with what I shall gay, I
shall attack it only in the pretexts which you continual-
ly employ in its justification.
Now, the first pretext which authorizes in the world al^
most all slanders, and is the cause that our conversation?^
are now become continual censures upon our brethren, is
the pretended insignificancy of the vices we expose to
view. We would not wish to tarnish a man of charac-
ter, or ruin his fortune, by dishonouring him in the
world ; to stain the principles of a woman^s conduct, by
entering into the essential points of it ; that would be too
infamous and mean : But to hint at a thousand faults,
which lead our judgment to believe them capable of all
the rest ; to inspire the minds of those who listen to us
with a thousand suspicions, which point out what we
168 SERMOJsr VI.
dare not say ; to make satirical remarks, which discover
a mystery^ where no person before had peceived the least
intention of concealment ; by poisonous interpretations,
to give an air of ridicule to manners which had hitherto
escaped observation ; to let every thing, on certain points,
be clearly understood, while protesting that they are in-
capable themselves of cunning or deceit, is what the world
makes little scruple of; and though the motives, the cir-
cumstances, and the effects of these discourses, be high-
ly criminal, yet gaiety and liveliness excuse their malig-
nity, to those who listen to us, and even conceal from
ourselves their atrocity.
I say, in the first place, the motives. I know that it
is, above all, by the innocency of the intention, that they
pretend to justify themselves ; that you continually say,
that your design is not to tarnish the reputation of your
brother, but innocently to divert yourselves with faults
which do not dishonour him in the eyes of the world.
You, my dear hearer, to divert yourself with his faults !
But what a cruel pleasure is that, which carries sorrow
and bitterness to the heart of your brother ? Where is
the innocency of an amusement, whose source springs
from vices, which ought to inspire you with compassion
and grief? If Jesus Christ forbid us in the gospel, to
invigorate the languors of conversation by idle words,
shall it be more permitted to you, to enliven it by derision
and censure ? If the law curse him, who uncovers the
nakedness of his relations, shall you, who add raillery
and insult to the discovery, be more protected from
that malediction ? If whoever calls his brother fool, b»
worthy, according to Jesus Christ, of eternal fire, shall
he who renders him the contempt and laughing-stock of
a profane assembly, escape the sîume puuisliment ? You,
OJV EVIL-SPEJIKIJS'G. 169
to amuse yourself with his faults! But does charity
delight in evil ? Is that rejoicing in the Lord, as com-
manded by the apostle ? If You love your brother as
yourself, can you delight in what afflicts him ? Ah ! the
church formerly held in horror the exhibitions of gladia-
tors, and denied that believers, brought up in the ten-
derness and benignity of Jesus Christ, could innocently
feast their eyes with the blood antl death of those un-
fortunate slaves, or form an harmles recreatfou of so
inhuman a pleasure. But you renew more detestable
shows, to enliven your languor: You bring upon the
stage, not infamous wretches devoted to death, but mem-
bers of Jesus Christ, your brethren; and you there
entertain the spectators with wounds which you inflict
on persons rendered sacred by baptism.
Is it then necessary that your brother should suffer,
to amuse you ? Can you find no delight in your con-
versations, unless his blood, as 1 may say, is furnished
towards your iniquitous pleasures ? Edify each other,
says St. Paul, by words of peace and charity ; relate
the v/onders of God towards the just, the history of
his mercies to sinners ; recall the vu'tues of those,
who with the sign of faith have preceded us ; make an
agreeable relaxation to yourselves, in reciting the pious
examples of your brethren with whom you live ; with a
religious joy, speak of the victories of faitli, of the ag^^
grandizement of the kingdom of Jesus Christ, of the es-
tablishment of truth, and the extinction of error, of the
favours which Jesus Christ bestows on his church, by
raising up in it faithful pastors, eiiliglitened members,
and religious princes ; animate yourselves to virtue, by
contemplating the fallaciousness of the world, the empti-
ness of pleasure, and the unhappiness of f?inners^ who
Vol. I, m
170
iiERMOJ\' VL
yield themselves up to their unruly passions. Are these
great objects not worthy the delight of Christians ? It
was thus, liowever, tliat the first believers rejoiced in the
Lord, and from the sweets of their discourse, formed one
of the most holy consolations to their temporal calami-
ties. It is the heart, my brethren, which decides upon
our pleasures : A corrupt heart feels no delight, but
in what recalls to it the image of its vices : Innocent
delights are only suitable to virtue.
In effect, you excuse the malignity of your censures,
by the innocence of your intentions. But fathom the
secret of your heart : W hence comes it, that your sar-
casms are always pointed at such an individual, and
that you never amuse yourself with more wit, or more
agreeably, than in recalling his faults ? May it not pro-
ceed from a secret jealousy ? Do not his talents, fortune,
credit, station, or character, hurt you more than his
faults? Would you find him so fit a subject for censure,
had he fewer of those qualities which exalt him above
you ? Would you experience such pleasure in exposing
his foibles, did not the world find qualities in him both
valuable and praise-worthy ? Would Saul have so often
repeated with such pleasure, that David was only the
son of Jesse, had he not considered him as a rival, more
deserving than himself of the empire ? Whence comes it,
that the faults of all others find you more indulgent ?
That elsewhere you excuse every thing, but here every
circumstance comes empoisoned from your mouth ? Go
to the source, and examine, if it is not some secret root
of bitterness in your heart ? And can you pretend to jus-
tify? by the innocency of the intention, discourses which
flow from so corrupt a principle ? You maintain that it
is neither from hatred nor jealousy against your brother:
oj\r EviL'SPEAKij^'G. lyi
I wish to believe it ; but in your sarcasms, may there
not be motives, perhaps still more shameful and mean? Is
it not your wish, to render yourself agreeable, by turn-
ing your brother into an object of contempt and ridicule ?
Do you not sacrifice his character to your fortune?
Courts are always so filled with these adulatory and in-
terested satires on each other ! The great are to be pit-
ied, whenever they yield themselves up to unwarranta-
ble aversions. Vices are soon found out, even in that
virtue itself w hich displeases them.
But after all, you do not feel yourselves guilty, you
say, of all these vile motives ; and that it is merely through
indiscretion, and levity of speech, if it sometimes happen
that you defame your brethren. But is it by that you
can suppose yourselves more innocent ? Levity and in-
discretion ; that vice, so unworthy of the gravity of a
Christian, so distant from the seriousness and solidity of
faith, and so often condemned in the gospel, can it justi-
fy another vice? What matters it to the brother whom
you stab, whether it be done through indiscretion or mal-
ice ? Does an arrow, unwittingly drawn, make a less
dangerous or slighter wound, than if sent on purpose?
Is the deadly blow, which you give to your brother,
more slight, because it was inflicted through impnidence
and levity? And what signifies the imiocency of the in-
tention, when the action is a crime? But besides. Is
there no criminality in indiscretion, with regard to the
reputation of your brethren? In any case whatever, can
more circumspection and prudence be required ? Are
not all the duties of Christianity comprised in that of
charity? Does not all religion, as I may say, consist in
that? And to be incapable of attention and care, in a
point so highly essential, is it not considering, as it
17S sEHMojsr VI.
were, all the rest as a sport ? Ah ! it is here he ought to
put a guard of circumspection ou his tongue, weigh eve-
ry wordj put them together in his heart, says the sage
Ecclesiastes, and let them ripen in his mouth. Do any
of these inconsiderate speeches ever escape you, against
yourself? Do you ever fail in attention to what interests
your honour or glory ? What indefatigable cares ! what
exertions and industry, to make them prosper Î To what
lengths do we see you go, to increase your interest, or im-
prove your fortune ! If it ever happen that you take
blame to yourself, it is always under circumstances which
tend to your praise : You censure in yourself, only faults
whicii do you honour; and in confessing your vices,
you wish only to recapitulate your virtues : Self-love
connects every thing with yourself. Love your brother
as you love yourself, and every thing will recall you to
him ; you w ill be incapable of indiscretion, where his
interest is concerned, and will no longer need our instruc-
tions, in respect to what you owe to his character and
glory.
But if these slanders which you call trivial, be crim-
inal in their motives, they are not less so in their cir-
cumstances.
In the first place, I should make you observe, that
the world, familiarized with guilt, and accustomed to
see the most heinous vices, now become general, is no
longer shocked at them ; and calls those defaminations
trilling, which turn upon the most criminal and shame-
ful weaknesses : Suspicion of infidelity, in the sacred
bond of marriage, is no longer a marked discredit, or
an essential stain ; it is a source of derision and pleas-
antry : To accuse a courtier of insincerity and double
dealing, is no attack upon his lionour ; it is only cast-
ej\r evtl-spe^jctjyg. I78
ihg a ridicule on the protestations of sincerity, with
which he amuses us : To spread the suspicion of hy^
pocrisy, on the most sincere piety, is not an insult to
God through his saints ; it is a language of derision^
which custom has rendered common : Jn a word, ex-
cepting those crimes punishable by the public authority,
and which are attended with the loss of credit and
property, all others seem trivial, and become the ordi-
nary subject of conversation, and of public remark.
But let us not pursue this reflection farther. Suppose
that your brother's faults are ligbt : The more light
they are, the more are you uuj ist in heightening tliem :
The more he merits indulgence on your part, the more
are we to presume in you a malignity of observation,
from which nothing can escape ; a natural hardness of
heart, which can excuse nothing. Were the faults of
your brother important, you would spare him, you say ;
you would find him entitled to your indulgence ; polite-
ness and religion would make your silence a duty :
What ! because his faults are only trivial, you find him
less worthy of your regard? The very circumstance
which ought to render him respectable, authorizes you
in making him the butt of your saicasms? Are you not,
says the Apostle, become a judge of iniquitous thoughts ?
And your eye, is it then wicked, only because your
brother is good? Besides, the faults which y cm censure
are light ; but would they appear so to you, were you to
be reproached with them? When certain discourses,
held in your absence, have reached your ears, and
which in fact, attacked essentially neither your honour
nor probity, but only acquainted the public with some of
your foibles, what have been your sensations ? My God !
Then it was that you magnified every thing ; that every
174; SERMON VI
circumstance appeared important to you , that, not sat-
isfied with exaggerating the malice of words^ you raked
up the secret of the intention, and hoped to find motives
still more odious than the discourse. In vain are you
told that these are not reproaches, which essentially
interest you, and at the worst cannot disgrace you ; you
think yourselves insulted ; you mention them with bitter
complaints ; you exclaim loudly, and are no longer mas-
ters of your resentment ; and whilst all the world blames
the excess of your sensibility, you alone obstinately
persist in the belief of its being a serious affair, and
that your honour is interested. Make use, then, of this
rule in the faults which you publish of your brother :
Apply the offence to yourselves ; every thing is light,
which is against him ; but with regard to what touches
you, the smallest circumstance appears important to
your pride, and worthy of all your resentment.
Lastly, The vices which you censure are light ; but
do you add nothing of your own to them ? Do you faith-
fully exhibit them as they are ? In relating them, do you
never mingle the malignity of your own conjectures ?
Do you not place them in a point of view, different from
their natural state? Do you not embellish your tale?
And, in order to make the hero of your ridicule agreea-
ble, do you not fashion liim to the wish of the company,
and not such as in reality he is ? Do you never accom-
pany your speeches with certain gestures, which allovr
all to be understood ; w ith certain expressions, which
open the minds of your hearers to a thousand suspicions,
equally rash and dishonourable ; even with an expres-
sive silence, which permits more to be imagined than a-
ny thing you could possibly have said? For, how diffi-
cult is it fo confine ourselves to the bounds of truth,
when we are no longer within those of charity The
more what we eensure is light, the more is calumny to
be dreaded ; we must embellish^ to attract attention ; and
we become calumniators, where we did not suppose our^
selves even censurers.
Behold the additional inconveniencies of evil- speak-
ing ; but if, on their account, the slanders which you
think light, be highly criminal, will they be less so with
respect to the individuals whom they attack ?
In the^?'s^ place, it is a person, perhaps of a sex, to
whom, especially on certain poinls, the slightest stains
are important ; to whom it is a dishonour to be publicly
spoken of ; to whom raillery becomes an insult, and ev-
ery suspicion an accusation ; in a word, where not to be
praised is almost an affront, and a disgrace : Thus St.
Paul would have every woman be adorned with bash-
fulness and modesty ; that is to say, he would wish those
virtues to be as conspicuous in them, as the ornaments
with which they are covered ; and the Iiighest eulogy
whicli the Holy Spirit makes on Judith, after speaking
of her beauty, youth, and great wealth, is, that in all
Israel, not a person was to be found who had aspersed
her conduct, and that her reputation corresponded with
her virtue.
ScZZz/, Your censures are perhaps pointed towards your
superiors ; or against those whom Providence has estab
lished above you, and to whom the law of God com^
mands you to render that respect and submission to
which they are entitled. For the pride which hates in-
feriority, always recompenses itself, by finding out weak-
nesses and foibles, in those to whom it is under the ne
cessity of yielding obedience ; the more they are exalte
ed, the more they are exposed to our censure : Malig
fy5 SEJiMOJV VI.
nity is even more quick- sighted in regard to their eiTors:
nothing, in their actions, is pardoned ; the very persons
most loaded with their kindnesses, or most honoured by
their familiarity, are frequently those who most openly
publish their imperfections and vices ; and besides viola-
ting the sacred duty of respect, they likewise render
themselves guilty of the mean and shameful crime of in-
gratitude.
Sdly, It is a person, perhaps consecrated to God, and
established in the church, w hom you censure ; who, en-
gaged by the sanctity of his vocation, to possess more
exemplary, pure, and irreproachable manners, finds him-
self stained and dishonoured by censures, wiiich would
not affect the reputation of persons of the world. Thus
the Lord, in the Scriptures, curseth those who shall even
meddle with his anointed. Nevertheless, the shaftis of
slander are never more animated, more brilliant, or more
applauded in the world, than when directed against the
ministers of his holy altar : The world, so indulgent to
itself, seems to have preserved its severity only on their
account ; and for them it has eyes more censorious, and
a tongue more empoisoned, than for the rest of men. It
is true, 0 my God ! that our conversation amongst the
people is not always holy, and free from reproach ; that
we frequently adopt the manners, luxury, indolence,
idleness, and pleasures of the world, against which we
ought to struggle ; that we hold out to believers more
examples of pride and negligence, than of virtue ; that
we are more jealous of pre-eminence, than of the duties
of our calling; and that it is difficult for the world to
honour a character which we ourselves disgrace. But
as I have often said, my brethren, our infidelities ought
rather to be the subject of your tears, than of your plea-
OJV EVIL-SPEAKLXG. 177
santry and censure : God generally punishes the disor-
uers of the people, by the corruption of the priests ; and
the most dreadful scourge with which he strikes king-
doms and empires, is that of not raising up in them ven-
erable pastors, and zealous ministers, who may stem the
torrent of dissipation; it is that of permitting faith and
religion to become weakened, even amongst those who
are its defenders and depositaries ; that the light, which
was meant to instruct you, should be changed into dark-
ness ; that the co-operators in ^our salvation should
assist, by their example, in your destruction ; that e-
ven from the sanctuary, whence ought to proceed only
the good savour of Jesus Christ, there should issue an
odour of death and scandal ; and, in a word, that a-
bominations should find their way even into the holy
place. But what alteration does the relaxation of our
manners make in the sanctity of the vocation vvhicli con-
secrates us ? Are the sacred vases which serve on the
altar, though composed of a mean metal, less worthy of
your respect ? and even granting the minister may merit
your contempt, would you be less sacrilegious in not
respecting his ministry ?
Lastly, Your detractions and censures are perhaps
directed against persons, who make a public profes-
sion of piety, and whose virtue, your hearers former-
ly respected. You then persuade them, that they had
been too credulous; you authorize them to believe,
that few worthy, and intrinsically good characters, are
to be found on the earth ; that all those held out as such,
when narrowly exa^nined, are like the rest of men : You
confirm the prejudices of the world against virtue, and
give fresh credit to the common expressions so in-
jurious to religion^ with regard to the piety of the ser .
Vol. I. ' Si
178 ^ERMoj^^ rr
vaiits of Jesus Christ. Now, do all these appear so ve-
ry light to you? Ah, my brethren! the just on this
earth are like the holy ark, in the midst of which the
Lord dwells, and any contempt or insult to which, He
most rigorously avenges : They may stagger in their
road, like the ark of Israel, while it was borne in tri-
umph to Jerusalem ; for the purest and most shining vir-
tue has its spots and eclipses, and even the most solid
cannot always equally support itself; but the Lord is
incensed, when rash and impure hands, like those
of Uzzah, venture to put ihem right : and scarcely
have they touched them, when they are smote by his
wrath : He takes to himself the slightest insults with
which they dishonour his servants, and He cannot en-
dure, that virtue, which has found admirers even among
tyrants and the most barbarous nations, should frequent-
ly, among believers, find only censure and derision.
Thus the little children of Israel were devoured on the
spot, for having mocked the baldness of the man of God ;
nevertheless, these were only puerile indiscretions so
pardonable at their age. Fire from heaven fell upon the
officer of the impious Ahaziah, and in a moment consu-
med hira, for having in derision called Elijah the man of
God ; nevertheless, he was a courtier, from whom little
regard might be expected for the austerity and simplici-
ty of a prophet, or for the virtue of a man, rustic in his
appearance, and hateful to his master. Michal was
struck with barrenness, for having too harshly censured
the holy excesses of joy and piety of David before the
altar; nevertheless, it proceeded merely from female
delicacy. But to meddle with those who serve the Lord,
is, according to the Scripture, to meddle wdth the apple
of your eye : He invisibly curses those rash declaimers a-
OjV evil-speakijk''G. 179
gainst piety ; and though he may not strike them as for»
merly^ with instant death, yet he marks on their forehead^
from this life forward, the stamp of reprobation, and de-
nies to rhem that precious gift of sanctity and grace, which
they had despised in others ;lt is the upright nevertheless^
who are now become the general butt of the malignity
of public discourses ; and we may safely say, that vir-
tue gives birth to more ce usurers in the world, than
vice.
I might add, that if tliese slanders, which you term
light, be highly criminal in their motives and circum-
stances, they are still more so in their consequences ;
I say their consequences, my brethren, which are always
irreparable. You may expiate the crime of voluptuous-
ness, by mortification and penitence: the crime of hatred^
by love for your enemy ; the crime of ambition, by a
renunciation of the honours and grandeurs of the age :
the crime of injustice, by a restoration of w hat you had
unjustly ravished from your brother ; even the crime of
impiety and freethinkiug, by a religious and public re-
spect for the worship of your fathers ; but what remedy,
w hat virtue, can repair the crime of detraction ? You
revealed to only one person the vices of your brother :
It may be so ; but that unlucky confidant will soon, m
his turn, have communicated it to others, who, on their
part, no longer regarding as a secret w hat they have
just heard, will relate it to the first comers ; in the rela-
tion of it, every one w ill add new circumstances ; eacli,
in his way, will empoison it with some^ new trait ; in
proportion as they publish, they will increase, and mag-
nify it : Like to a spark of iirc, says St. James, which
wafted by an impetuous wind to diiferent places, sets iu
flames tlie forests and countries it reaches : Such is the
destiny of detraction.
180 SEKMOJ^' VI
What you had mentioned in secret^ was nothing at
first, and seemed stifled and buried under its ovvn ashes;
but this file lies hid for a while, only to burst forth with
redoubled fury ; this nothing soon acquires reality^ by
passing through a div ersity of mouths ; every one will
add to it, whatever his passion, interest, disposition of
mind, or his own malignity, may hold out to him as
probable ; the source is hardly perceptible ; but, assisted
in its course, by a thousand foreign streams, the united
torrent will overwhelm the court, city, and country ; and
that, wliich at its first birth was only a private and impru-
dent pleasantry, a simple idea, or a malicious conjecture,
will become a serious affair, a cause of public and formal
dishonour, the subject of every conversation, and an eter-
nal stain upon the character of your brother. Repair now,
if you can, the injustice and scandal ; restore to your bro-
ther the good name of w hich you have deprived him. Will
you pretend to oppose the public inveteracy, and singly
hold forth his praise ? But they will regard you as a
new comer, who is ignorant of what has taken place in
the world ; and your praises, coming too late, will serve
only to draw upon him fresh satires. Now what a
multitude of crimes proceeding from only one ! The
sins of a whole people become yours ; you defame
through the moutlis of all your fellow-citizens ; you
are likewise answerable for the guilt of all who listen to
you. What penitence can expiate evils, to which it
can no longer afford relief: And will your tears be
able to blot out what shall never be effaced from the
memory of man ? Again, were the scandal to end with
you, your death by terminating it, might be its expia-
tion before God : but it is a scandal which will survive
you ; the shameful histories of courts never die with
OjY etil-speakij^g. 181
their heroes. Lascivious writers have transmitted to
ÎIS the anecdotes and irregularities of the courts which
have preceded us; aud licentious authors will be found
amongst us, to acquaint the ages to come with the pub-
lic rumours, tiie scandalous circumstances, and the vices
of our own.
O my (xod ! these are of that description of sins, of
which we know not either the enormity or extent ; but
we know, that to become a stumbling-block to our
brethren, is to overturn for them the work of Thy Son's
mission, and to destroy the fruit of His labours, of His
death, and of all His ministry. — Such is the illusion
of the pretext w^hich you draw from the lightness of
your slanders ; the motives are never innocent, the cir-
cumstances always criminal, the conseqences irrepa-
rable. Let us examine if the pretext of the public
notoriety be better founded. This is what yet re-
mains for me to investigate.
Part II, Whence comes it, that the greater par^ of the
christian precepts are violated by those very persons who
profess themselves their observers, and that we find more
difficulty in bringing the world to acknowledge than to
correct its transgressions ? The reason is, that our ideas
of duty are never taken from the ground- work of reli-
gion ; that we never enter into the spirit, to decide upon
the letter ; and that few people ascend to the principle,
to clear up the doubts which corruption forms on the
detail of the consequences.
IS^ow, to apply this maxim to my subject : What are
the rules of the gospel, which make slander a crime to
the disciples of Jesus Christ ? In the first place, it is
the precept of christian humility, which, as it ought to
establish in us a profound contempt ©f ourselves, and to
open our eyes to the endless multitude of our own wants^
should at the same time, shut our eyes to those of our
brethren. In the second place, it is the duty of charity,
that charity, so much recommended in the gospel ; the
grand precept of the law, which covers the faults it can-
not correct, excuses those it cannot cover, delights not in
evil, and with difficulty believes, because it never wish-
es it to happen. Lastly, it is the inviolable rule of
justice, which, never permitting us to do to others what
we would not have done to ourselves, condemns what-
ever exceeds these equitable bounds. Now, the scanda-
lous discourses w hich turn upon those faults you term
public, essentially violate these three rules : Judge, then,
of their innocency.
1st, They violate the precept of Christian humility.
Indeed, my dear hearer, wei*e you feelingly touched
with your own wants, says St. Chrysostom ; were
your own sin incessantly before your eyes, like the pen-
itent David, you would find neither sufficient leisure
nor attention to remark the faults of your 1)rethren.
The more they were public, the more would you in
secret thank the Lord, for averting from you that scan-
dal ; the more would you feel your gratitude awakened,
when you considered, that, though fallen perhaps into
the same errours. He hath not permitted them to be
proclaimed from the house-tops, like those of your bro-
ther ; that He hath left in obscurity your deeds of dark-
ness ; He hath eovcred them, as I may say, with his
wings: and that in the eyes of men. He hath pre-
served your honour and innocence, wliich you have
so often forfeited before him : You would tremble, w hile
saying to yourself, that perhaps He hath spared your
OJV' EyiL-SPEAKU\'G. 183
confusion in this world, only to render it more bitter and
more durable in the next.
Such is the disposition of Christian humility towards
the public disgraces of our brethren : We sliould often
speak of them to ourselves, but scarcely ever to others.
Thus, when the Scribes and Pharisees presented to our
Saviour the woman caught in adultery, and eagerly
pressed him to give his judgment ; though the guilt of
the sinner was public, Jesus Christ kept a profound si-
lence; and to their insidious and pressing intreaties to
explain himself, He simply answered, ^^He tliatis with-
^^ out sin amongst you, let him first cast a stone at her ;'^
as if He thereby meant to make them understand, that
sinners, like them, were little entitled to censure with so
high a hand, the crime of that woman ; and that, to ac-
quire the right of casting a single stone at her, it was
necessary the individual should himself be free from re-
proach. Here then, my brethren, is a rule applicable
to the present subject : The evil conduct of such a person
is become notorious : Very well ; whoever of you is
without sin, let him cast the first stone ! If, before God,
you have nothing, perhaps more criminal, with which to
reproach yourself, speak with freedom ; condemn, in the
severest manner, his fault, and open upon him the whole
flood of your derision and censure ; it is permitted to
you. Ah! you, who speak so boldly, you are more
fortunate; but are you more innocent than he? You
are thought to possess more virtue, and more regard for
your duty ; but God, who knoweth you, will He judge
like men ? Were the darkness, which conceals your
shame, to be dissipated, would not every stone you
throw recoil upon yourselves ? Were an unexpected cir
cumstance to betray your secret, would not the audacity
Ig^ SERMOJV VI.
and malicious joy with which you censure, add addition^
al ridicule to your confusion and disgrace ? Ah ! it is
only to artifices and arrangements^ which the justice of
God may disconcert and lay open in an instant, that you
are indebted for this phantom of reputation, on which
you pride yourselves so much : You verge perhaps on
the moment which shall reveal your shauie ; and, far
from blushing in secret and in silence^ when faults like
your own are made known, you speak of, and relate
them with pleasure, and you furnish the public with
weapons, whicli one day it will employ against yourself:
It is the threat and prediction of our Saviour : All they
that take the sword shall perish with the sword : You
pierce your brother with the sw ord of the tongue ; with
the same weapon shall you be pierced in your turn ; and
though you were even exempted from the vices you so
boldly censure in others, the just God will deliver you
up to it.
Disgrace is the common punishment of pride. Peter,
on the evening of the Lord's Supper, never ceased to
exaggerate the guilt of the disciple, by w hom his Mas-
ter was to be betrayed : He was the most anxious of
them all to know his name, and the most forward to eXr
press his detestation of his perfidy ; and, immediately af-
ter, he falls himself into the infidelity which he had so
lately blamed with such pride and confidence. Nothing
draws down upon us the wrath and curse of God, so
much as the malicious pleasure with which we magnify
the faults of our brethren ; and his mercy is incensed,
that these afflicting examples, which He permits, for the
sole purpose of recalling us to our own weakness, and
awakening our vigilance, should flatter our pride, and
excite only our derision and censure.
OJV EVIL-SPEAKIJ^'G. 185
You depart, then, from the rules of Christian humility,
when you permit yourselves to censure the faults, how-
ever public, of your brother; but you likewise essential-
ly violate the rules of charity : For charity never faileth,
says the Apostle. Now, if the vices of your brother be
known to those who listen to you, to what purpose, then,
do you repeat them afresh? What indeed can be your
intention? To blame his conduct? But, is his shame
not already sufficient? Would you wish to overw^helra
au unfortunate wretch, and give the last stab to a man,
already pierced with a thousand mortal blows ? His
guilt has already been exaggerated by so many dark and
malicious hearts, who have spread it in colours sufficient
to blacken it for ever : Is he not sufficiently punished ?
He is now worthy of your pity, rather than of your cen-
sure. What then could be your intention ? To condole
with him for his misfortune ? But to open afresh his
wounds, is a strange way of condoling with an unfortu-
nate brother. Is true* compassion thus cruel ? What
is it then? To justify your prophecies, and former sus-
picions, on his conduct? To tell us that you had always
believed, that sooner or later it would come to that ?
But you come, then, to triumph over his misfortune ? To
applaud yourself for his disgrace ? To claim an honour
to yourself for the malignity of your judgement ? Alas !
what glory can it be to a Christian, to have suspected
his brother ; to have believed him guilty, before he was
known as such ; to have rashly foreseen his disgraces
yet to come; we, who ought not to see them, even when
they have taken place ? Ah ! you who can prophecy so
justly, on the destiny of others, be a prophet in your own
country, and anticipate the misfortunes which threaten
you : Why do you not prophecy thus for yourself, that
Vol. I. ' ,^2
186 ^EJtMOjY y I.
unless youily from such an opportunity, and sucli'a dan-
ger, you wiil perish in it ? That unless you dissolve
such a connection, the public, which already murmurs,
will at last break out, and then you will find it too late
to repair the scandal? That unless you quit those ex-
cesses, into which the passions of youth, and a bad edu-
cation, liave thrown you, your affairs and fortune will be
ruined beyond resource ? It is on these points that you
ought to exercise your art of conjecture. What mad-
ness, while we ourselves surrounded with precipices, to
be occupied, in contemplating from afar those that threat-
en our brethren !
Besides, the more your brother's digraces are public,
the more affected ought you to be with the scandal,
which they necessarily occasion to the church ; with the
advanta<i;e which the wicked and the free-thinkers will
draw from them, to blaspheme the name of the Lord, to
harden themselves iu impiety, and to persuade them-
selves, that these are foibles common to all men, and
that they are most virtuous, who best know how to
conceal them : The more ought you to be afflicted, at
the occasion which these public examples of irregularity
give to weak souls, to fall into the same disorders :
The more does charity oblige yoii to grieve over them :
The more ought you to wish, that the remembrance of
these faults should perish ; that the day and the places of
their discovery should be effaced from the memory of
men : And, lastly, the more ought you by your silence,
to endeavour to suppress them. But the whole world
speaks of them, you say ; your silence will not prevent
the public conversation ; consequently, you may make
remarks in your turn. The inference is barbarous:
Because you are unable to repair the disgrace, are you
OjV EYIL-SPEJKWG 18/
permitted to augment it? Because you cannot save your
brother from shame, shall you assist to overwhelm him
with confusion and infamy ? Because almost every one
casts a stone at him, shall it be less cruel in you, to
throw one in your turn, and to unite with those w ho
bruise, and beat him in pieces? Setting religion aside,
how beautiful it is, to declare for the unfortunate ! How
much real dignity and greatness of soul, in sheltering
under our protection, those aljandoned hj the world Î
And, even admitting the rules of charity were not to
make it a duty to us, the feelings alone, of glory and
humanitv, should in this case be sufficient.
'^dly, You not only violate the holy rules of charity ;
but you also break those of justice. For, you say the
faults of your brother are public; be it so; but place your-
self in the same situation, would you exact from him less
deference, or less humanity, were your disgrace to be
no longer a mystery ? Would you agree, that the pub-
lic example gave to your brother a right against you,
which you arrogate to yourself against him ? Would
you accept, on his part, in justification of his malignity,
an excuse, which would render him still more odious,
mean, and cruel ? Besides, how do you know whether
the author of all these reports be not an impostor ? So
many false reports are circulated in the world ; and the
malice of men renders them so credulous on the faults
of others Î Ho^v do you knovf , but these calumnies have
been circulated by an enemy, a rival, or some envious
person, in order to ruin him, who lias thwarted his
passions or his fortune ? Are such instances rare ?
AVhether it be not some heedless person who has given
occasion to all these discourses, by an indiscreet expres-
sion, uttered v/ithout thought, and laid hold of through
188 sebmojY vt
malice ? Are such mistakes impossible ? Whether it be
not a mere conjecture, originally circulated as such, and
afterwards given as a truth ? Are such alterations uncom-
mon, in public rumours ? What could have a greater
appearance of truth, to the children of the captivity,
than the alledged misconduct of Susanna. The judges
of the people of God, venerable through their age and
dignity, deposed against her ; the people exclaimed
against her as an adulteress ; they looked upon her as
the disgrace of Israel ; nevertheless, it vras her mod-
esty alone which drew upon her these insults ; and had
not a Daniel been found in her time, who bad the cour-
age to doubt a general report, the blood of that innocent
woman must have stained the whole people. And,
without departing from our text ; were not the sacri-
legious reports, which held out Jesus as an impostor
and Samaritan, become the public discourses of all
Judea? The Priests and Pharisees, people to whom
the dignity of their station, and the regularity of their
manners, attracted the respect and confidence of the
people, strengthened them by their authority : Never-
theless, would you excuse such among the Jews as, on
reports so common, spoke of the Saviour of the world
as a seducer, vs^ho imposed on the credulity of the peo-
pie ? You make yourself liable then, to the guilt of
having calumniated your brother; however widely-
spread the rumours against him may be, his crime, of
which you have not been a witness, is always uncertain
to you : And you do him an injustice, when you prop-
ogate as true, what you have only heard from public
reports, often false, and always rash.
But 1 go further : supposing even your brother^s dis.
grace to be certain, and the malignity of slander to have
OJV EVIL-SPEAKIJ^'G. 180
added nothing to its criminality ; how can you know^
that the very shame of seeing it so public may not have
recalled him to himself; and that a sincere repentance,
and tears of compunction, may not have already effaced,
and expiated it before God ? Years are not always re-
quired for grace to triumph over a rebellious heart : there
are victories wliicli it leaves not to time ; and a public
disgrace oftens turns out the moment of mercy, which,
decides upon the conversion of the sinner. Now, if your
brother is in a state of repentance, are you not unjust
and cruel to revive faults which his penitence has effa-
ced, and which the Lord hath ceased to remember? Do
you recollect the sinful woman in the gospel ? Her ir-
regularities were notorious, seeing she had been known
through the whole city as a prostitute : nevertheless,
when the Pharisee reproached her with her sins, her
tears and love had effaced them, at the feet of our Sa=
viour ; the goodness of God had remitted her errors, yet
the malignity of men was unable to obliterate them.
Lastly, Your brother's disgrace was public ; that is to
say, it was confusedly known, that his conduct was not
free from reproach ; and you particularize the circum-
stances, proclaim his deeds, explain the motives, and lay
open the whole mystery ; you confirm what they but
imperfectly knew ; you tell them of what they knew
not at all ; and you applaud yourself, for appearing
better instructed in your brother's misfortune, than
those who listen to you : Some degree of character,
though wavering, yet remained to him ; he still preser-
ved, at least, some remains of honour, a spark of life,
and you completely extinguish it. I do not add, that
these public reports perhaps originated from people of
no character, persons of neither reputation nor conse-
190 ^ËRMOJ\i' VI.
quence to convince : Hitherto none durst yield credit to
rumours so poorly supported ; but you^ who, by your
rank, birth, and dignities, have acquired an influence o-
ver the minds, remove every shadow of doubt or uncer-
tainty: Your name alone will now be used as a proof
against the innocency of your brother ; and in future it
will be cited in justification of the general reports. Now,
can any thing be harder or more unjust, both on account
of the injury you do him, and of the service you fail to
perform ? Your silence on his fault might alone perhaps
liave stopped the public defamation, and you would
have been cited to clear his innocence, as you now are
to blacken it : And what more respectable use could
you have made of your rank and influence ? The more
you are exalted in the world, the more ought you to be
religious, and circumspect on the reputation of your
brethren ; the more ought a noble decency to render you
reserved on their errors : The discourses of the vulgar
are soon forgot ; they expire in coming into the world ;
but the words of the great never fall in vain ; and the
public is always a faithful echo, either to the praises
they bestow, or to the censures they allow themselves
to utter. My God Î thou teachest us, by concealing thy-
self the sins of men, to conceal them on our part; to re-
veal our faults, thou waitest, with a merciful patience,
the day when the secrets of our hearts shall be made
manifest : And we, by a rash malignity, anticipate the
time of thy vengeance ; we, who are so interested, that
the secrets of our hearts, and the mystery of the con-
sciences, should not as yet be laid open to thee.
Thus, you particularly, ray brethren, whom rank and
birth exalt above others, be not satisfied with putting a
check upon your tongue ; according to tlie advice of tlie
OjY EVIL-SPEAKIjXJG. 191
Holy Spirit, present a melancholy and severe counte-
nance, a silence of disapprobation aud indignation, to
every defamatory discourse ; for the crime is exactly e-
qual between the malignity of the speaker, and the satis-
faction of those who listen. Let us surround our ears
with thorns, that they may not be accessible to poison-
ous insinuations; that is to say, let us not only shut them
against these words of blood and gall, but let us return
them on their author in a manner equally bitter and
mortifying. Were slander to find fewer approvers, the
kingdom of Jesus Christ would soon be purged of that
scandal : Slander is pleasing ; and a vice which pleases
soon becomes a desirable talent : We animate slander
by our applause ; and as there is no person who does
not wish to be applauded, there are few, likewise, who
do not study it, and endeavour to make a merit of slander-
ing with skill.
But it is a surprising circumstance, that piety itself fre-
quently serves as a pretext to that vice, which saps the
very foundation of piety, and which siiijcere piety detests.
This ought to be the last part of this discourse ; but I
shall say only a single word upon it. Yes, my brethren,
slander frequently finds, in piety itself, wherewithal to co-
lour itself : It decks itself out in the appearance of zeal :
Hatred to vice seems to authorize the censure of sinners ;
those who make a profession of virtue often believe
that they are honouring God, and rendering glory to
him when they dishonour, and exclaim against those
who offend him ; as though the privilege of piety, whose
soul is charity, were to absolve us even from charity. It
is not that I wish here to justify the discourses of the
world, and to furnish it with new weapons against the
zeal of the upright ; but at the same time, I ought not
19â ^ Eli MO A' VI.
to dissemble^ that the liberty which they assume, of
censuring the conduct of their brethren, is one of the
most common abuses of piety.
Now, my dear hearer, you to whom this discourse may
be applicable, listen to, and never forget, the rules which
the gospel prescribes to true zeal.
Isf, Remember, that the zeal which makes us lament
over the scandals that dishonour the church, is con-
tented with lamenting them before God ; with praying
him not to forget his former mercies ; to cast his pro-
pitious regards upon the people ; to establish his reign
in all hearts ; and to recall sinners from their errone-
ous ways. Behold the christian manner of lamenting
over the disgraces of your brethren ; mention them fre-
quently to the Lord, but forget them in the presence
of men.
%dly, Remember, that piety gives you no right to em-
pire or authority over your brethren : That if you be not
established over them, and responsible for their conduct ;
whether they fall, or remain stedfast, is the concern of
the Lord, and not yours ; consequently, that your con-
tinual and public lamentations over their irregularities
proceed from a principle of pride, malignity, levity, and
intolerance ; that the church has its pastors to superin-
tend the flock ; that the ark has its ministers to sustain
it, vrithout needing the interference of any foreign or im-
prudent succours ; and, lastly, that by these means, far
from correcting your brethren, you dishonour piety ; you
justify the discourses of the wicked against the just ; and
you authorize tliem in saying, as formerly in the Book
of Wisdom, Why professeth the righteous to have a
right to fill the streets, and the public places, with tlieir
clamours and upbraidings against our conduct, and hold-
OA* EVILSPEAKmG. 193
ètlî it out as a point of virtue, to defame us in the minds
of our brethren ?
Zdly, Remember, that zeal reguiated by wisdom, seeks
the salvation, and not the defamation of the brother it
wishes to edify ; that it loves not to injure ; that, in or»
der to render itself useful, it studies to render itself a-
miable ; that it is more affected with the misfortune and
loss of its brother, than irritated against, or scandalized
by his errors ; that, far from gomg to publish them to
others, it would wish to be enabled to conceal them from
itself; and that the zeal which censures tliem, far from
lessening the evil, serves only to augment the scan-
dal.
^thly, Remember, that the censorious zeal which you
display, is useless to your brother, seeing he witnesses
it not ; that, far from being of service, it is even hurtful
to his conversion, to which you raise up ol)stacles, by
irritating him against your censures, should he happen
to be informed of them ; that it is injurious to liis reputa-
tion, which you wound, and lastly, to those that listen
to you, who, respecting your pretended virtue, never
believe that tliey can err, while following your steps ;
and no longer place slander among the number of vices.
Zeal is humble, and has eyes for nothing but its own
wants; it is simple, and much more disposed to be cred=
ulous with regard to good than evil; it is merciful, and
is always indulgent to the faults of others, in the same
proportion as it is severe to its own weaknesses ; it is
gentle and timorous, and would rather fail in blaming
vice, than go to an extreme in censure.
Thus, my brethren, you who, reclaimed from the er-
rors of the world, now serve the Lord; allow me to con^
elude, with addressing to you the words, formerly spo
Vol. L S3
194< SERMOJV VL
ken by a holy father to the servants of Jesus Christy who
through an indiscreet zeal, made no scruple of tearing
in pieces the characters of their brethren.
" A tongue which has confessed Jesus Christy which
^^ has renounced the errors and splendours of the world,
^^ which ^very day blesses the God of peace at the foot
« of the altar, and is often consecrated, by participation
" of the holy mysteries ; should no longer be intolerant,
^^ dangerous, and full of gall and bitterness against its
^( brethren. It is disgracing religion, after having of-
" fered up pure prayers and thanksgivings to the Lord
^^ in the assembly of believers, to dart the venomous
^^ sting of the serpent, against those whom the unity of
" faith, charity, the sacrament, and even their very er-
^^ rors, should render more endeared and more respecta-
ii ble to you."
By the wisdom and moderation of our discourses, let
us deprive the enemies of virtue of every occasion to
blaspheme against it ; let us correct our brethren by the
sanctity of our example, rather than by the keenness of
our censures ; let us recall them, by leading a more up-
right life than they, and not by speaking against them ;
let us render virtue respectal)le by its sweetness, rather
than by its severity ; let us draw sinners towards us by
compassionating, rather than censuring their faults, m
order that our virtue may be conspicuous to them, only
through our charity and indulgence, and that our tender
care to cover and excuse their errors, may induce them
to accuse and condemn themselves with more severity,
Avhen they perceive the difference of our conduct: By
these means we shall regain our brethren; we shall
honour righteousness ; we shall overthrow impiety and
freethiuking ; we shall deprive the world of all occasion
oj\r evil-^peakijyg. 195
for those discourses, so common, and so injurious to real
virtue : And, after having used mercy towards our breth-
ren, we shall w ith more confidence present ourselves be-
fore the Father of mercies, and the God of all consola-
tion, to ask mercy for ourselves.
( 196 )
SERMON VIL
ON THE EMPLOYMENT OF TIME
r.^A^:
John vii. 33.
Yet a little while am I with you, and then I go unto him
that sent me.
An improper use of time is the source of all the dis-
orders which reign among men. Some pass their whole
life in idleness and sloth, equally useless to the world^
their country, and themselves ; others, in the tumult of
business and worldly aflPairs. Some appear to exist, on-
ly for the purpose of indulging an unworthy indolence,
and escaping, by a diversity of pleasures, from the wea-
riness which every where pursues them, in proportion
as they fly from it : Others, in a continual search amidst
the cares of the world, for occupations which may free
ihem from themselves. It appears that time is a com^
OJV THE EMPLOYMEJSTT OF TIME. 197
mon enemy, against whom all men have agreed to con-
spire ; Their whole life is one continued and deplorable
endeavour to rid themselves of it. The happiest are
those who best succeed in not feeling the weight of its
duration ; and the principal satisfaction they reap, either
from frivolous pleasures or serious occupations, is the
abridgement of days and moments, and deliverance from
them, almost without a perception of their having pas-
sed.
Time, that precious deposit confided to us by the
Lord, is therefore become a burden which fatigues and
oppresses us : We dread the loss of it for ever, as the
greatest of evils ; and we almost equally dread the ob-
ligation to support its weariness and duration. It is a
treasure which we would wish to retain for ever, yet
which we cannot suffer to remain in our possession.
This time, however, of w hich we make so little esti^
mate, is the only means of our eternal salvation. We
lose it without regret, which is a crime ; we employ it
only for worldly purposes, which is a species of mad
ness. Let us employ the time whicli God allows us.
because it is short : Let us employ it only in labouring
for our salvation, because it is only given us, that we
may be saved ; that is to say, let us be sensible of the
value of time, and let us lose it not ; let us know the use
of it, and employ it only for the piu^pose it was given :
By these means, we shall avoid both the dangers of a
slothful, and the inconveniences of a hurried life. This
is the subject of the present discourse.
Part I. Three circumstances, in general, decide the
value of things among men : The great advantages
which may accrue to us from them ; the short space we
198 SEIiMOJK' VIL
have to enjoy tliera; ami, lastly, the improbability
of ever regaining them, if once lost. Now, behold,
my brethren, the principal motives which ought to ren-
der time precious and estimable to every wise man :
In the first place, it is the price of eternity : In the
second place, it is short, and we cannot make too much
haste to reap the benefit of it : And, lastly, it is irrepara-
ble, for, once lost, it can never be regained. It is the
price of eternity : Yes, my brethren, man, condemned to
death by the sin of his birth, ought to receive life only
to lose it, even from the moment he has received it. The
blood alone of Jesus Christ has effaced this sentence of
death and punishment, pronounced against all mankind
in the person of the first sinner : We live, though the
offspring of a father condemned to death, and the heirs
of his punishment, because the Redeemer died for us :
The death of Jesus Christ is, therefore, the source, and
the only claim of right we have to life ; our days, our
moments, are the first blessings which have flowed to
us from His cross ; and the time which we so vainly
lose, is the price, however, of His blood, the fruit of His
death, and the merit of His sacrifice.
Not only as the children of Adam, do we deserve no
longer to live ; but even all the crimes we have added
to those of our birth, are become new sentences of death
against us. So many times as we have violated the
law of the Author of life, so many times from that mo-
ment, ought we to have lost it.
Every sinner is, therefore, a child of death and anger ;
and every time the mercy of God has suspended, after
each of our crimes, the sentence of condemnation and
death, it is a new life, as it w ere, his goodness has
«ranted, in order to allow us time to repair the criminal
use we had hitherto made of our own.
OJ\r THE EMFLOYMEJ\'T OF TIME. 199
I speak not of the diseases, accidents and niimber-
iess dangers,, whicli have so often menaced our life :
which we have so often seen terminate that of our friends
and nearest connections; and from which his goodness
has always delivered us. The life which we enjoy, is
like a perpetual miracle, therefore, of his divine mercy:
The time which is left to us, is the conseqence of an
infinity of tender mercies and grace, which compose the
thread and the train, as it were, of our life : every mo-
ment we breathe, is like a new gift we receive from God;
and to waste that time, and these moments, in a state of
deplorable idleness, is to insult that infinite goodness
which has granted them to us, to dissipate an inestima-
ble grace, which is not our due, and to deliver up to
chance the price of our eternity. Behold, my brethren,
the first guilt attached to the loss of time : It is a pre-
cious treasure left to us, though we have no longer any
right to it, it is given to us for the purpose alone of
purchasing the kingdom of heaven, and we dissipate
it as a thing the most vile and contemptible, and of
which we know not what use to make.
In the world, we would regard that man as a fool,
who, heir to a great fortune, should allow it to be wast-
ed through want of care and attention, and should make
no use of it, either to raise himself to places and digni-
ties, which might draw him from obscurity, or to ac-
quire a solid establishment, which might place him in
future beyond the reach of any reverse.
But, my brethren, time is that precious treasure, which
we have inherited from our birth, and which the Almigh-
ty leaves to us through pure compassion : It is in our
possession, and it depends upon ourselves to make a
proper use of it. It is not in order to exalt ourselves
too sÈnjyioA-^ m
to frivolous dignities here below, or to worldly grandeur ï
Alas ! whatever passes away is too vile to be the price
of time, which is itself the price of eternity : It is in or-
der to be placed in the heavens above, at the side of
Jesus Christ ; it is in order to separate us from the crowd
of the children of Adam, above all the Caesars and kings
of the earth, in that immortal society of the happy, who
shall all be kings, and whose reign shall have no bounds
but those of eternity.
What madness, then, to make no use of a treasure so
inestimable ; in frivolous amusements, to waste that time,
which may be the price of eternal salvation, and to al-
low the hopes of our immortality to be dissipated in
smoke ! Yes, my brethren, there is not a day, an hour,
a moment, but which, properly employed, may give us
a title to heaven. A single day lost ought therefore, to
leave us remorse, a thousand times more lively and poig-
nant than the failure of the greatest worldly projects ;
yet, nevertheless, this time is a burden to us : Our whole
life is only one continued endeavour to lose it ; and, in
spite of all our anxieties to waste it, there always re-
mains more than we know how to employ ; and yet, th©
thing upon the earth we have the least value for, is
our time ; our acts of kindness we reserve for our friends;
our bounties for our dependents ; our riches for our chil-
dren and relations ; our praises for those who appear
worthy of them : Our time we give to the whole world ;
we expose it, as I may say, a prey to all mankind; they
even do us a favour in relieving us from it : It is a
weight, as it were, which we support in the midst of the
world, while incessantly in search of some one who may
ease us of its burden. In this manner, time, that gift of
God, that most precious blessing of his clemency, and
OJV THE EMPLOYMEJ^T OF TIME. gQl
which ought to be the price of our eternity, occasions all
our embarrassments, all our weariness, and becomes the
most oppressive burden of our life.
But a second reason, which makes us feel, still more
sensibly, our absurdity in setting so little value upon
the time the Almighty leaves to us, is, that not only is it
the price of our eternity, but likewise it is short, and we
cannot make too much haste to employ it to advantage.
For, my brethren, had we even a long series of ages to
exist upon the earth, that space would, in truth, be still too
short to be employed in meriting everlasting happitiess ;
yet its duration would at least enable us to retrieve those
accidental losses. The days and moments lost, would
at least form only a point, scarcely perceptible, in that
long series of ages we should have to pass here below.
But, alas ! our whole life is but an imperceptible point :
The longest endures so short a period ; our days and our
years are shut up in such narrow limits — that we see
not what we can have still to lose, in a space so short
and rapid. We are only, as 1 may say, a moment upon
the earth ; like those fiery exhalations, which, in the
obscurity of night, are seen wandering in the air ; we
only appear to vanish in a moment, and re- plunge for
ever into our original and everlasting darkness : The
exhibition we make to the world is but a flash, which
is extinguished in its birth — we say it ourselves every
day. Alas ! how can we take days and hours of rest
from a life which is itself but a moment ? And besides,
if you retrench from that moment, all you are under the
necessity of allowing to the indispensible necessities of
the body, to the duties of your station, to unexpected
events, and the unavoidable courtesies of society ; what
remains for yourself; for God, and for eternity ? And
Vol. L ^^
z02 sERMoj^ vu.
are we not wonhy of pity; we, who know not' bow to
employ the little which remains to us, and w ho fly to
the assistance of a thousand artifices to abridge its du*
ration ?
To the little time, my brethren, we have to live upon
the earth, add the number of past crimes, which we
have to expiate in this short interval. How m any in.
iquities are collected upon our heads, since our first
years ? Alas ! ten lives, like ours, would scarcely suf-
fice to expiate a part of them : The time would still be
too short ; and it would be necessary to call upon the
goodness of God to prolong the duration of our penance.
Great God ! what portion can remain to me for pleasures
and indolence, in a life so short and so criminal as mine !
What place, then, can frivolous sports and amusements
find in an interval so rapid, and which altogether would
not suffice to expiate a single one of my crimes !
Ah! my brethren, do we even think upon it? A
criminal condemned to death, and to whom a single day
is only allowed to endeavour towards obtaining his
pardon, would he find hours and moments still to trifle
away ? Would he complain of the length of the time,
which t]ie humanity and goodness of his judge had a-
warded him ? would he be embarassed how to use it ?
would he search for frivolous amusements to assist him
in passing those precious moments, which were left him
to merit his pardon and deliverance ? would he not
endeavour to profit by an interval so decisive with re-
gard to his destiny ? would he not replace, by the anxie-
ty, ardour and continuance of his exertions, what might
be wanting from the l)revity of the time allowed to him ?
Fools that we are ! our sentence is pi*ouounced ; our guilt
renders our condemnation certain : We are left a single
OJ\r THE EMPLOYMEJVr OîT TIME. ^B
flay to shun the evil, and to change the rigour of our e-
ternal decree : And this only day, this rapid day, we in-
dolently pass in occupations, vain, slothful, and puerile.
This precious day is a burden which wearies us ; we
seek to abridge it ; scarcely can we find amusements
sufficient to fill the void : the evening arives, without our
haviug made any other use of the day left to us, than
that of rendering ourselves still more worthy of the con-
demnation we had already merited. And, besides, my
brethren, how do we know that the abuse of tlie day^
left to us by the Almighty'^ goodness, will not oblige
his justice to abridge, and to cut oif a portion of it ?
How many unexpected accidents may arrest us in a
course so limited, and cut off in their fairest blossoms^,
the hopes of a longer life ? How many sudden and
astonishing deaths do we see, always the just punish-
ment of the unworthy use made of life ? What age has
ever witnessed more of these melancholy examples ?
Formerly these accidents were rare and singular : at
present they are events which happen every day.
Whether it be, that our crimes have drawn down upon
us this punishment '^ whether it be, that excesses un-
known to our forefathers lead us to them ; they are now
the deaths most common and frequent. Number, if you
can, those of your relations, friends, and connections^
whom a sudden d^ath has surprised without preparation,
repentance, or a moment allowed them to reflect upon
themselves, upon that God whom tiiey have offended^
and upon those crimes which, far from detesting, they
never had leisure sufficiently to be acquainted with !
Will you tell us after this, that there are many spare
moments in the day ; tliat we must contrive to amuse
ourselves some way or other.
§504 SERMOM' VIL
There are many spare moments in the day ! But your
guilt consists in leaving them in that frightful void i The
days of the upright are always filled. Spare moments
in the day ! But are your duties always fulfilled? Are
your houses regulated^ your children instructed, the af-
flicted relieved, the poor visited, the works of piety ac-
complished ? Time is so short ; your obligations so infi-
nite ; and you can still find so many spare moments in
the day ! My God ! how many holy characters have in
solitude complained, that their days passed too rapidly
away ; have borrowed from the night, what the brevity
of the day had taken from their labours and zeal ; have
lamented, even in the calm and leisure of their solitude,
that sufficient time remained not for them to publish Fhy
praises, and eternal mercies ! And we, charged with a
multiplicity of cares ; we, in the midst of the solicitudes
and engagements of the age, which absorb almost all our
days and our moments ; we, responsible to our relations,
to our children, to our friends, to our inferiors, to our
superiors, to our stations, to onr country, for such an
infinity of duties ; we still find a void in our life ; and
the little which remains to us, we think too long to
be employed in serving and blessing Thy holy name!
But we are happy, you say, when we know how to
amuse ourselves, and innocently to pass away the timCo
But how do you know that your course is not already
run ; and that you do not perhaps verge on the fatal mo-
ment which commences your eternity ? Does your time
belong to you, to be disposed of as you please? Time
itself passes away so quickly ; and yet so many amuse-
ments are necessary to assist it in passing still more
rapidly.
But, is time given to you for nothing serious, great^
OJV THE EMPLOYMEJVT OF TIME, ^00
and eternal ; nothing worthy of the elevation and desti-
ny of man ? And the Christian and heir to heaven, k
he upon the earth only to amuse himself?
But are there not, you say, many mnocent recreations
in life ? I grant there are many ; but recreations sup-
pose pains and cares, which have preceded them ?
while your whole life is one continued recreation. Re-
creations are permitted to those who, after fulfilling their
duties, are under the necessity of affording some mo»
ments of relaxation to the weakness of human nature :
But you, if you have occasion for relaxation, it is from
the continuance of your pleasures, and even what you
call your recreations : It is from the rage of inordinate
gaming, the duration and earnest attention necessary to
which, besides the loss of time, render you incapable on
quitting it, of application to any other duty of your sta-
tion. What recreation can you find in a lawless and
boundless passion which occupies almost your whole life,
ruins \ our health, deranges your fortune, and renders you
the continual sport of a miserable chance ? And is it not
the case, that in families w here continual and public
games are permitted, we find neither order, rule, nor
dicipline ; all serious duties forgotten, disorderly ser^
vants, children badly educated, affairs declining, and
public scorn and contempt attached to their names, and
their unfortunate posterity ? The passion of gaming is
seldom unaccompanied ; and to those of one sex espe-
cially, is always the source, or the occasion of all the
others : These are the recreations you believe inno-
cent and necessary, to fill up the empty moments of the
day.
Ah ! my brethren, how many of the reprobate, in the
midst of their anguish and punishments, entreat from
^00 SEÉMOJ\ VIL
the mercy of God only one of those moments, whicb
we know not how to employ ; and could their request
be granted, what use would they not make of that pre-
cious moment ? How many tears of compunction and
penitence ! How many prayers and supplications, to
soften the Father of mercies, and to induce his paternal
feelings to restore to them his affection ! This single mo-
ment is nevertheless refused : Time, they are told, ex-
ists no more for them ; and you find yourselves embar-
rassed with the little you are left. God will judge you^
my brethren ; and on the bed of death, and in that ter-
rible hour which shall surprise you, in vain will you
demand a little more time ; in vain will you promise to
God, a more Christian use of what you will endeavour
to obtain : His justice, will cut without pity, the thread
of your days ; and that time, which now oppresses and
embarrasses you, shall then be denied.
But that which renders our blindness here still
more conspicuous, is, that not only the time which we
loose with so much indifference and insensibility, is
short and precious, but likewise irreparable ; for once
lost, it is for ever gone, without resource.
I say irreparable : For, in the first place, riches, hon-
ours, reputation, and favour, though once lost, may again
be retrieved. We may even replace each of these los-
ses, by other acquirements, which will repay us with
interest ; but the moments lost in idleness, are so many
means of salvation, which we never again can possess,
but which are for ever cut off from the number, which
God, in his compassion, had allotted to us. Indeed, in
a space so short as we have to live, there cannot be a
doubt, but that the Almighty had his particular designs,
with regard to each of our days and moments; that Hs
OJV' THE EJlîPLOrMTJSTT OF TIME. 2Ù7
ïiath marked the use we ought to have made of them ;
the connection they were to have with our eternal salva^
tion ; and that to each of them He hath attached aids
of grace, in order to consummate the work of our
sanctification. Now, these days and moments heing
lost, the grace attached to them must he equally so : The
moments of God are finished, and return no more : The
course of his mercies is regulated : We believed they
were only useless moments we had lost ; and with them
we have lost inestimable succours of grace, whicli we
find deducted from those the goodness of God had des-
tined for us.
In the second place. Irreparable, because every day,
every moment, ought to advance us a step nearer Hea-
ven. Now, the days and moments lost leaving us in ar-
rear, and the duration of our course being also determi-
ned, the end arrives when we are yet at a distance ;
when there is no longer time to supply the remainder of
the career ; or, at least, to regain the lost moments and
reach the goal, we must double our speed ; in one day
fill up the course of many years ; make the most heroic
exertions ; and hasten in a degree even beyond our
strength ; proceed to excesses of holiness, which are
miracles of grace, and of which the generality of men
are incapable ; and consummate, in a short interval,
what ought to be the labour of a whole life.
In the last place. Irreparable, with respect to the
works of penance and reparation, of which in a certain
period of life we are capable, but are no longer so,
when we wait the infirmities of a more advanced age.
For, after all, it is in vain to say then, that God expects
not impossibilities ; that there is a penance for every age ;
ajid that religion does not wish us to hasten our days,
£08 SERMOA" VIL
under the pretext of expiating our crimes : It is you
who have placed yourselves in this state of impossi-
bility : Your sins diminish not your obligations : Guilt
must be punished, in order to be eff'aced. The Al-
mighty had allowed you both time and strength, to satis-
fy this immutable and eternal law : This time you have
wasted in accumulating new debts ; this strength you
have exhausted, either by new excesses, or at least^
without making any use of it, to further the designs of
God respecting you : The Almighty must therefore do,
what you have never done yourselves, and punish, after
your death, the crimes you have never been inclined to
expiate during your life.
That is to say, in order to concentrate all these reflec-
tions, that with every moment of our life, it is as with
death : We die only once ; and from thence we con-
clude, that we must die in a proper state, because there
is no longer a possibility of returning, to repair by a se-
cond death, the evil of the first : In like manner, we
only once exist, such and such moments ; we cannot
retrace our steps, and by commencing a new road, repair
the errors and faults of our first path : In like manner,
every moment of our life which we sacrifice, becomes a
point fixed for our eternity; that moment lost, will
change no more : It will eternally be the same ; it will
be recalled to us, such as we had passed it, and will be
marked with that ineffaceable stamp. How miserable,
then, is our blindness, my brethren ; we, whose life is
only one continued endeavour to get rid of the time
which returns no more, and, with so rapid a course, flies
to precipitate itself into the abyss of eternity !
Great God ! Thou, who art the sovereign dispenser of
times and moments : Thou, in whose hands are our days
OjV tee EMPLOTMEJSTT of TIJVŒ. â09
and our years, with what eyes must Thou behold us lo-
sing and dissipating the moments, of which Thou alone
knowest tlie duration ; of which, in irrevocable char-
acters, Thou hast marked the course and the measure ;
moments, which Thou drawest from the treasure of thine
eternal mercies, to allow us time for penitence ; moments
which, thy justice presses thee every day, to abridge,
as a punishment for their abuse ; moments which, every
day before our eyes, thou refusest to so many sinners,
less culpable than we, whom a terrible death surprises,
and drags into the gulf of thine eternal vengeance;
moments, in a word, which we shall not perhaps long
enjoy, and of which thou soon intendest to terminate the
melancholy career ! Great God ! behold the greatest and
the best part of my life, already past, and wholly lost :
In all my days, there has not hitherto been a single se-
rious one; a single day for Thee, for my salvation, and
for eternity ; my whole life is buta vapour, which leaves
nothing real or solid in the hand of him who would recal
it. Shall I, to the end, diag on my days in this unprofita-
ble state; in this weariness which pursues me, in the midst
of my pleasures, and the efforts which unavailingly I
make to avoid it ? Shall the last hour surprise me, loaded
with the idleness of my whole years ? And in all my
course, shall there be nothing serious or important, but
the last moment, which will terminate it for ever, and
decide my everlasting destiny ? Great God ! what a life
for a soul destined to serve Thee, called to the immortal
society of Thy Son, and Tliy saints, enriched with thy
gifts, and in consequence of them, capable of works
worthy of eternity! What a life is that life, which, in
reality is nothing, has nothing in view, and fills up a
rime which is decisive of its eternal destiny, in doing
Vol. I. ^:i
âlO SERMOJV VII.
notliing, and reckoning as well passed, those days and
Jiours which imperceptibly slip away !
But if idleness be opposite to the price of time, irreg-
ularity and multiplicity of occupations are not less so,
to the proper order of time, and to the Christian use wc
ought to make of it. You have just seen the dangers
of a slothful, and I will now lay before you the incon-
veniencies of a hurried life.
Part II. In opposition to every thing hitherto said,
my brethren, the majority of those who listen to me, have
no doubt secretly thought that their life is any thing but
slothful and useless ; that scarcely can they find time
for the duties, good offices, and endless engagements of
their stations ; that they live in an eternal vicissitude of
occupation and business which absorb their whole
life, and that they think themselves happy, when they
can obtain a moment for themselves, and enjoy that lei-
sure which the situation of their fortune denies them.
Now this, my brethren, is a new way of abusing
time, still more dangerous than even inutility and indo-
lence. In reality, the christian use of time is not merely
the filling up of all its moments ; it is that of filling them
up in the order and according to the will of the Lord,
who gives them to us : The life of faith, is a life of reg-'
ularity and wisdom : Fancy, passion, pride, and cupidi-
ty,are false principles of conduct, seeing that they them-
selves are only a derangement of the mind and heart ;
and that order and reason ought to be our only guides.
Nevertheless, the life of the majority of men, is a life
always occupied, and always useless ; always laborious,
and always void : Their passions give birth to all their
motions : These are the great springs which agitate
OJV THE EMPLOYJMEJ\rT OF TIME. ^11
îcen; make them run here and there like madmen ; and
leave them not a single moment^s tranquility : And in
filling up all their moments, they seek not to fulfil their
duties, but to deliver themselves up to their restlessness^
and to satisfy their iniquitous desires.
But in what doth this order consist, which ought to
regulate the measure of our occupations, and to sanctify
the use of our time ? It consists, in the first place, ia
limiting ourselves to the occupations attached to our
stations ; in not seeking places and situations which may
multiply them ; and in not reckoning among our duties^
the cares and embarrassments, which anxiety, or our
passions, alone generate within us. Secondly, How=
ever agitated may be our situations, amidst all our occu-
pations, to regard as the most essential, and the most
privileged, those we owe to our salvation.
I say, in the first place, not to reckon among the occu-
pations which sanctify the use of our time, those which
restlessness, or the passions alone generate.
Yes, my brethren, we all wish to escape from our^
selves : To the generality of men, nothing is more meU
ancholy and disagreeable, than to find themselves a»
lone, and obliged to review their own hearts. Since
so many vain passions carry us away ; so many crim-
inal attachments pollute us ; and so many thousand il-
licit desires occupy every moment of our hearts ; in ex-
amining ourselves, v/e find only a certainty of death, a
frightful void, cruel remorse, dark thoughts, and melan-
choly reflections. We seek, therefore, in the variety of
occupations, and continual distractions, an oblivion of
ourselves : We dread leisure as the signal of weariness ;
and we expect to find in the confusion and multiplicity
of external cares, that happy intoxication; w liich enables
M2 SERMOJV VIL
US to go on without perceiving it, and makes us no lon-
ger feel the weight of ourselves.
But, alas ! we deceive ourselves : Weariness is nev-
er found but in irregularity, and in a life of confusion,
where every thing is out of its place : It is in living by
hazard, that we are a burden to ourselves ; that we con-
tinually search after new occupations, and that disgust
soon obliges us to repent that we ever sought them ; that
we incessantly change our situation, in order to fly from
ourselves ; and that wherever we go; we still carry our-
selves ; in a word, that our whole life is but a diver
sified endeavour to shun weariness, and a miserable taL
ent to find it. Wherever order is not, weariness roust
necessarily be found : and far from a life of irregularity
and confusion being a remedy, on the contrary, it is the
most fruitful source, and universal cause of it. -
The virtuous who live in regularity, they who yield
nothing to caprice and temper, whose every occupation
is exactly where it ought to be, whose moments are fil-
led up, according to their destination, and to the will of
the Lord who directs them ; find in order, a perfect rem-
edy agamst, and protection from weariness. That wise
uniformity in the practice of duties, which appears so
gloomy in the eyes of the world, is the source of their
joy, and of that happy equality of temper which nothing
can derange : Never embarrassed with the present time,
which stated duties occupy ; never in pain with regard
to the future, for which new duties are arranged ; never
delivered up to themselves, by the variety of occupations
which succeed each other ; their days appear as mo-
ments, because every moment is in its place : Time
hangs not upon them, because it always has its distinc-
tion and employment ; and in the arrangement of an uni-
OJ\r THE EMPLOYMENT OF TLMJl g 18
form and occupied life, they find that peace, and that
joy, which the rest of men in vain seek for in the confu-
sion of a continual agitation.
Restlessness, by multiplying our occupations, leaves
us, therefore, a prey to weariness and disgust ; nor yet
does it sanctify the use of our time : For, if the moments
not regulated by the order of God, are moments lost,
however occupied they may otherwise be ; if the life of
man ought to be a life of wisdom and regularity, w here
every occupation has its allotted place; wliat can be
mtn-e opposite to such a life than this inconsistency,
these eternal fluctuations in which inquietude makes us
pass our time ? But the passions which keep us in per-
petual motion, do not form for us more legitimate em-
ployments.
Yes, my brethren, I know that it is only at a certain
period of life, that we appear occupied with frivolity
and pleasures ; more serious cares, and more solid avo-
cations succeed to the indolence, and to the vain amuse-
ments of our younger years ; and after wasting our youth
in sloth and in pleasures, we appropriate our maturity
to our country, to fortune, and to ourselves ; but still
with respect to iieaven we continue the same. I confess
that we owe our services to our country, to our Sove-
reign, and to the national cares : that amongst the num-
ber of duties prescribed to us by religion, is that of zeal
for our Sovereign, and for the interest and glory of our
country ; and that religion alone can form faithful sub-
jects, and citizens ready to sacrifice every thing for the
general good. But religion wislies not that pride and
ambition should rashly plunge us in public affairs, and
that we shoukl anxiously endeavour, by all possible
means, by intrii^ue and solicitations, to attain places,
214} SERMOJV VJI.
where, owing every thing to others, not a moDieiit is left
to ourselves : Religion Avishes us to dread these tumul-
tuous situations ; to give ourselves up ta them with re-
gret and trembling, when the order of God, and the au-
thority of our masters, calls us to them ; and were the
choice left to us, always to prefer the safety and leisure
of a private station, to the dangers and eclat of dignities
and places. Alas ! we have so short a period to exist
upon the earth, and the salvation, or eternal condemna-
tion whicli awaits us, is so near ; that every other care
ought to be melanclioly and burdensome to us, and eve-
ry thing which diverts our attention from that grand ob-
ject, for wliich we are allowed only a small portion of
days, ought to appear as the heaviest misfortune. This
is not a maxim of superstition ; it is the first maxim, and
the foundation of Christianity.
Nevertheless, ambition, pride, and all our passions^
unite to render a private life insupportable to us. What
in life we dread most, is a lot and a station which leave
us to ourselves, and do not establish us upon others.
We consult neither the order of God, nor the views of
religion, nor the dangers of a situation too much agita-
ted, nor the happiness which faith points out in a private
and tranquil station, where we have nothing but our-
selves to answer for, and frequently not even our talents ;
we consult only our passions, and the insatiable desire
of raising ourselves above our brethren ; we wish to fig-
ure upon the stage of life, and bexome great personages ;
and upon a stage, alas ! which to-morrow shall disap-
pear, and leave us nothing real, but the puerile trouble
and pain of having acted upon it. Even the more these
stations appear surrounded with tumult and embarrass-
ment, the more do they appear worthy of our [uirsuit.
GjY the EMPLOTMEJ^^T of TIjME. 2i5
We wish to take a part in every thing : That leisure so
dear to a religious soul, to us appears shameful and mean :
Every thing which divides us between the public and
ourselves ; every thing which gives to others an absolute
right over our time ; every thing which plunges us into
that abyss of cares and agitations, which credit, favour,
and consideration, drag after them ; affects, attracts, and
transports us. Thus, the majority of men inconsider-
ately create to themselves a tumultuous and agitated life,
which the Almighty never required of them ; and eager=
ly seek for cares, where they cannot be in safety, unless
the order of Grod had prepared them for us.
Indeed, we sometimes hear them complaining of the
endless agitations inseparable from their places ; sigh-
ing for rest, and envying the lot of a tranquil and private
station ; repeating that it should indeed be time to live
for themselves, after having so long lived for others.
But these are merely words of course ; they seem to
groan under the weight of affairs, but with much more
uneasiness and grief would they support the weight of
leisure, and of a private condition : They employ one
part of their life in struggling with each other fur tlie
tumult of places and employments, and the other they
employ in lamenting the misfoiiune of having obtained
them. It is a language of vanity ; they would wish to
appear superiour to their fortune ; and they are not a-
bove the smallest reverse, or the slightest symptom of
coldness which threatens tliem. Behold how our pas-
sions create occupations and embarrassments, which
God required not, and deprive us of a time, wliose value
we shall be ignorant of, till we reach that moment, when
time tinishes, and eternity begins.
Yet still, my brethren, in the midst of endless occn^
gl6 SEltMOJ\>^ VIL
pations attached to your stations, were you to regard
as the most privileged^ those connected with your salva-
tion, you would, in some measure at least, repair the
dissipation of that portion of your life, which the world,
and the cares of this earth entirely occupy. But it is not-
withstanding, in this point, that our blindness is deplo-
rable ; we cannot find time for our eternal salvation.
That which we bestow on fortune, the duties of our
calling, the courtesies expected from our station, the care
of the body, and attention to dress ; that which we give
to friendship, society, recreation, and custom ; all ap-
pear essential and indispensible : We even dare not
encroach upon, or limit these ; we carry them beyond
the bounds even of reason and necessity ; and as life is
too short, and our days too rapid ; to be sufficient for all
whatever we retrench, is from the cares of our salvation :
In the multiplicity of our occupations, we are sure to sa-
crifice those which we ought to bestow on eternity. Yes,
my brethren, in place of retrenching our amusements, the
duties which ambition multiplies, the ceremonies which
idleness alone has established, the cares we bestow on our
apparel, which custom and effeminacy have rendered end-
less; in place of giving up some part of the day at least to
God and our eternal interests, scarcely does there re-
main a moment which has escaped from the world and
its pleasures ; some rapid moments the world wishes
not, with which we are perhaps embarrassed, and which
we know not how to dispose of otherwise. So long as the
world chuses to engage us; so long as it continues to
offer pleasures, duties, trifles, and complaisances, we
yield ourselves up to it wii\\ delight. A¥hon all is over,
and we no longer know how to fill up our vacant hours,
we then consecrate to some languid practices of religion,
OJSr THE EMPLOYMEJ\rT OF TIME. SI?
those outcast moments, which weariness, or a deficiency
of pleasures, leaves us : Properly speaking, they are
moments of recreation, which we bestow upon ourselves,
rather than upon God ; an interval we place betweeu
the world and us, in order to return to it with more
relish, and breathe a little from the fatigue, disgust,
and satiety — the necessary consequences of a life de-
voted to the world and pleasures ; which, prolonged
beyond a certain measure, are immediately follow ed by
weariness and lassitude.
Such is the use, which even persons who deck them-
selves out with a reputation for virtue, make of their
time, especially at court. Their whole life is one con-
tinued and criminal preference given to the world, for-
tune, ceremony, and pleasures, above the business of
their salvation : All is filled up by what they devote to
their masters, friends, places and appetites ; and nothing
remains for God and for eternity, it would appear that
time is given us, in the first place, for the world, ambi-
tion, and earthly cares ; and should any portion of it
happen afterwards to remain, thaft we are entitled to
praise, when we bestow it on our salvation.
Great God ! for what purpose dost Thou leave us
on earth, but to render ourselves worthy of Thine eter-
nal possession ? Every thing we do for the world, shall
perish with it; whatsoever we do for Thee shall be
immortal. All our cares and attentions here, arR in
general for masters, ungrateful, unjust, difficult to please,
weak, and incapable of rendering us happy : The du-
ties we render to Thee are given to a Lord and Master,
faithful, just, compassionate. Almighty ; and who alone
can recompense those who serve him : The occupations
of the earth, however brilliant, are foreign to us 5 they
Vol, I, â6
^18 sEHMojsr vn.
are unworthy of us ; it is not for tliem we are created ;
we ought only to devote ourselves to them as they pass,
in order to satisfy the transitory ties they exact from us,
and which connect us with mankind : The cares of
eternity alone are worthy of the loftiness of our hopes,
and fill all the grandeur and dignity of our destiny.
Without the cares of salvation, those of this earth are
profane and sullied; they are then only vain, fruit-
less, and almost always criminal agitations : The cares
of salvation alone consecrate and sanctify them, give to
them reality, elevation, the price and the merit which
they wanted. All other cares wound, trouble, harden,
and render us miserable, but the duties we render to
Thee, leave us a real and heart-felt joy : Fhey strength-
en, calm, and console us, and even soften the anguish
and bitterness of the others. In a word, we owe our-
selves to thee, O my God ! before masters, inferiors,
friends or connections. Thou alone hast the first right
over our hearts and reason, which are the gifts of Thy
liberal hand ; it is for Thee, therefore, that in the first
place we ought to make use of them ; and we ought to be
Christians before we are princes, subjects, public char-
acters, or any thing else on the earth.
You will perhaps tell us, my brethren, that in fulfil-
ling the pamful and endless duties attached to your sta-
tion, you believe that you serve God, accomplish your
measure of righteousness, and labour toward your salva-
tion. I grant it; but we must fulfil these duties accor-
ding to the views of the Lord, from motives of faith,
and in the true spirit of religion and piety. God reckons
only what we do for him ; of all our pains, fatigues,
submissions, and sacrifices. He accepts only those which
are olfered to his glory, and not to our own ; aijd our
Ojsr THE EMPLOrMEjYT OF TIME. . 219
days are only occupied in his sight, when they are occu-
pied for eternity. All actions, which have nothing for
their object but the world ; a fame limited to this earth ;
a perishable fortune ; the praises they may attract to
us from men, or the degree of grandeur and reputation
to which they may raise us here below, are nothing in
his presence, or, at least, are only puerile amusements^
unworthy of the majesty of his regard.
And, my brethren, how diiferent are the judgments
of God from those of the world ! In the world we call
beautiful, that splended life in which great actions are
numbered, victories gained, difficult négociations conclu-
ded, undertakings successfully conducted, illustrious
employments supported with reputation, eminent digni-
ties acquired by important services, and exercised with
glory ; a life which passes into history, fills the public
monuments, and of which the remembrance shall be pre
served to the latest posterity : Such, according to the
world, is an honourable life. But if, in all this, men
have sought more their own, tlian the glory of God ; if
they have liad nothing more in view than to erect to
themselves a perishable edifice of grandeur on the earth;
in vain shall they have furnished a splendid career to
the eyes of men : in the eye of God, it is a life lost : In
vain shall history record us ; we shall be eflaced from
the book of life, and from the eternal histories : in vain
«hall oar actions be the admiration of ages to come; they
shall not be written on the immortal columns of the hea-
venly temple. In vain shall we have acted a dignified
part upon the scene of all earthly ages ; in the eternal
ages wo shall be as those who never were : In vain
shall our titles and dignities be preserved upon the mar=
ble and brass ; as the fingers of men have written them^
fâO SÉRMOJM' ni
they shall perish with them ; and what the finger of God
shall have written, will alone endure as long as himself.
In vain shall our life be proposed a s a model to the am-
bition of our decendants ; its reality existing only in the
passions of men, from the moment they shall cease to
have passions, and the objects which inflame them shall
be annihilated, this life shall be nothing, and shall be
replugged into a state of non-existence^ with the world
which admired it.
For, candidly, my brethren, can you really wish that
in that awful and terrible day, when righteousness itself
shall be judged, the Almighty should give you credit for
all the pains, cares, and disgusts you have experienced,
in order to raise yourselves in the world ? That He
should regard, as well employed, the time you have sa-
crificed to the world, fortune, glory, and the elevation of
your name and race, as if you were upon the earth only
for yourselves ? That He should place among the num-
ber of your works of salvation, those which have only
had for principle, ambition, pride, envy, and self-inter-
est ; and that He should reckon your vices amongst your
virtues.
And what will you be able to say to him on the bed
of death, when He shall enter into judgment with you,
and demand an account of the time, which He had only
granted you to be employed in glorifying and serving
Him ? Will you say to Him, Lord, I have gained many
victories ; I have usefully and gloriously served my
prince and country : I have purchased for myself a great
name amongst men ? Alas 1 you have never been able to
gain a victory over yourself; you liave usefully served
the kings of the earth, and you have neglected, with con-
tempt, the service of the King of kings. You have es-
OJ\r THE EMPLOTM£J\rT «F TIM£, %%i
tablisbed to yourself a great name among men^ and your
najie is unknown among the chosen of Grod : time lost^
for eternity. Will you say to Him, 1 have conducted
the most difficult négociations ; 1 have concluded the
most important treaties ; I have managed the interests
and fortunes of princes ; 1 have been in the secrets, and
in the councils of kings? Alas! you have concluded
treaties and alliances with men, and you have a thou-
sand times violated the holy covenant you have entered
into with God ; you have managed the interests of prin-
ces, and you have never known hovv^ to manage the in-
terests of your salvation : Yon have entered into the se-
crets of kii!g>5, and you ha» e ever bet r: iu^^norant of the
secrets of the kingdom of heaven : time lost, for eternity.
Will you say to Him, my whole life has been only an
incessant toil, and a painful and continued occupation ?
Alas ! you have always toiled, and you have never been
able to do any thing to save your soul : time lost for e-
ternity. Will you say to Him, I have established my
children in the world ; I have exalted my relations ; I
have been useful to my friends ; I have augmented the
patrimony of my ancestors ? Alas ! you have bequeath-
ed great establishments to your children, and you have
not left them the fear of the Lord, by bringing them up,
and establishing them in faith and in piety : You have
augmented the patrimony of your ancestors, and you
have dissipated the gifts of grace, and the patrimony of
Jesus Christ : time lost, for eternity. Will you say to
Him, I have made the most profound studies ; I have
enriched the public with useful and curious works ; I
have perfected the sciences by new discoveries; I im-^
proved my great talents, and rendered them useful to
mankind ? Alas ! the great talent confided to you was
^^^ SERMOJ^ m.
that of faith and grace^ of which you have made no use :
You have rendered yourself learned in the sciences of
men, and you have always been ignorant in the science
of the holy. Time lost for eternity. In a word, will you
tell Him, I have passed my life in fulfilling the duties
and good offices of my station ; I have gained friends ;
I have rendered myself useful and agreeable to my mas-
ters ? Alas ! you have had friends to boast of on the
earth, and you have acquired none to yourself in heaven;
you have made ever^ exertion to please men, and you
have done nothing to please the Almighty. Time lost
for eternity.
No, my brethren, what a frightful void, the greatest
part of men, who had governed states and empires, who
appeared to regulate the whole universe, and had filled
in it the most distinguished places ; who were the sub-
jects of every conversation, and of the desires and hopes
of men ; who engrossed, almost alone, the whole atten-
tions of the earth ; what*a frightful void will they, on the
bed of death, find their whole life to be ? whilst the days
of the pious and retired soul, regarded by them as obscure
and indolent, shall appear full, complete, occupied,
marked each by some victory of faith, and worthy of
being celebrated by eternal songs.
Meditate, my brethren, on these holy truths : Time
is short ; it is irreparable : It is the price of your eter-
nal felicity; it is given to you, only in order to render you
worthy of that felicity : Calculate, therefore, what por-
tion of it you should bestow on the Avorld, pleasure,
fortune, and on your salvation. My brethren, says the
apostle, time is short : Let us therefore, use the world,
as not abusing it ; let us possess our riches, places,
dignities, and titles, as though we possessed them not ;
OJ\r THE EMPLOTMEJMT OF TIME. 2^3
let US enjoy the favour of our superiors, and the esteem
of men, as though we enjoyed them not ; they are only
shadows, which vanish, and leave us for ever ; and let
us only reckon tliose moments as real, in our whole life,
which we have employed for heaven.
SERMON VIIL
THE CERTAINTY OF A FUTURE
STATE.
Matthew xxv. 46.
KÎnd these shall go away into everlasting punishment ;
but the righteous into life eternal.
Behold, my brethren, the termination of the desires,
hopes, counsels, and enterprises of man : Behold, upon
what at last shall split, the vain reflections of sages and
freethinkers, the doubts and eternal uncertainties of un-
believers, the vast projects of conquerers, the monuments
of human glory, the cares of ambition, the distinction of
talents, the disquietudes of fortune, the prosperity of
empires, and all the insignificant revolutions of the earth.
Such shall be the awful conclusion, which will unravel
the mysteries of Providence in regard to the diversified
lots of the children of Adam, and justify its conduct in
the government of the universe. This life is, therefore»
THE CERTAIJSTTT OF A FUTURE STATE, %%^
but a rapid moment, and the commencement of an eternal
futurity. Torments without end, or the delights of an
immortal felicity, shall be our lot, as well as that of all
men.
Nevertheless, the idea of this great scenes, which was
at one time able to startle the ferocity of tyrants, to shake
the fortitude of philosophers, to disturb the effeminacy
and voluptuousness of Caesars, to soften the most barba-
rous nations, to form so many martyrs, to people the
desarts, and to bring the whole universe submissive to
the yoke of the cross ; this image, so terrifying, is in
these times desthied to alarm only the timidity of the
common people. These grand objects are become like
vulgar paintings, which we dare no longer expose to the
false delicacy of the great and wise ; and the only fruit
we generally reap from this sort of discourse, is to makç
it be inquired perhaps, after quitting them, whether ev=
■^ry thing shall take place as we have said.
For, my brethren, we live in times in which the faith
of many has been wrecked ; in which a wretched philos^-
ophy, like a mortal venom, spreads in secret, and un-
dertakes to justify abominations and vices, in opposition
to the belief of future punishment and rewards. This
evil has passed from the palaces of the great, even to
the people, and every where the piety of the just is in-
sulted, by the discourses of irreligion, and the maxims
of freethinking.
And indeed, I am not surprised that dissolute men
should doubt of a future state, and endeavour to combat,
pr to weaken a trut|i, so capable of disturbing their crim-
inal sensualities. It is horrible to look forward to ev-^
erlasting misery. The world has no pleasure Avhich
can be proof against a thought so shocking i conse»-
■ YoL I. ^ %^
^5 sejimojY nil
queiitly, it has always endeavoured to efface it from the
heart and mind of man. It well knows, that the belief
of a future state is a troublesome check on the human
passions, and that it will never succeed in making tran-
quil and resolute libertines, without having first made
unbelievers.
Let us deprive, then, the corruption of the human
heart, of so wretched and weak a support : Let us prove
to dissolute souls, that they shall survive their debauch-
eries ; that all dies not with the body; that this life shall
ûnish their crimes, but not their misery ; and more com-
pletely to confound impiety, let us attack it in the vain
pretexts on which it depends.
1st, Who knows, say the impious, that all dies not
with us? Is that other life of which we are told, quite
certain ? Who has ever returned to inform us of it?
2dly, Is it worthy of the majesty of God, say they a-
gain, to demean himself by any attention to what passes
among men? What matters it to him, that worms of
the earth, like us, murder, deceive, and tear each other :
live in luxury or in temperance ? Is it not presumptuous
in man, to suppose, that an Almighty God is occupied
with him?
Lastly, What likelihood, add they, that God, having
made man such as he is, will punish as crimes, the in-
herent inclinations to pleasure, which nature has given
us — Behold the pliilosophy of the voluptuary: the un-
certainty of a future state; the majesty of God, which a
vile creature cannot offend ; and the weakness of man,
which, being born with him, He would be unjust to
consider it a crime.
Let us then prove, in the first place, against the uu^
certainty of the impious, that the truth of a future state
THE CEJtTAIJSTTY OF A FUTURE STATE. %'^
is justified by the purest lights of reason: SeconcHy.
against the unworthy idea, grounded upon the greatness
of God, that this truth is justified by His wisdom and
glory. Lastly, against tlie pretext, drawn from tlie
weakness of man, that it is justified, even by the testi-
mony of his own conscience. The certainty of a future
state ; the necessity of a future state ; the inward ac»
knowledgment of a future state : Tiiese are the subjects
and arrangement of my discourse»
O God ! attend not to the insults, which the bias»
phemies of impiety offer to Thy glory; regard only, and
see what reason is capable of, when Thy light is with
drawn — In the wickedness of the human mind, behold
all the severity of Thy justice, when it abandons us; that
the more I expose the foolish blasphemies of the impi-
ous soul, the more he may become in Thy sight, an ob=
ject worthy of Thy pity, and of the treasures of Thine
infinite mercy.—
Part L It is surely melancholy to be obliged to jus-
tify before believers, the most consolatory truth of faith ;
to prove to men, to whom Jesus Christ has been an-
nounced, that their being is not a wild mixture, and the
wretched offspring of chance ; that a wise, and an Al-
mighty Artificer, has presided at our formation and
birth ; that a spark of immortality animates our clayi
that a portion of us shall survive ourselves ; and that, on
quitting this earthly mansion, our soul shall return to the
bosom of God, whence it came, and go to inhabit the
eternal region of the living, where to each one shall be
rendered according to his vî^orks.
It was with this truth that Paul began to announce
faith before the Athenian judges. We are the immortal
'^EitMoj^r nil
race of God^ said he to that assembly of sages, and He
has appointed a day to judge the universe. By that the
Apostles spread the first principles of the doctrine of
Salvation, through infidel and corrupt nations. But vre,
who come after the revolution of ages, when all nations
have entered into the church, when the whole universe
has professed to believe, when all the mysteries have
been cleared up, all the prophecies accomplished, Jesus
Christ glorified, the path of heaven laid open ; we, who
appear in these later times, when the day of the Lord
is so much nearer than when our fathers believed : Alas !
what ought our ministry to be, unless to dispose be-
lievers for that gi;eat hope, and to instruct them to pre-
pare for their appearance before Jesus Christ, who will
quickly come ; far from having still to combat those
shocking and foolish maxims, which the first preaching
of the gospel had effaced from the universe.
The pretended uncertainty of a future state, is, tlien>
the great foundation of the security of unbelievers. We
know nothing, say they, of that other world, of which
you tell us so much. None of the dead have ever re-
turned to inform us ; perhaps there is nothing beyond
ihe grave. Let us enjoy, therefore, the present, and leave
to chance a futurity, which either exists not, or is meant
to be concealed from our knowledge.
Now, I say, that this uncertainty is suspicious in the
principle which produces it ; foolish in the proofs on
which it depends, and terrible in its consequences. Re-
fuse me hot y OUT attention.
I say " suspicious in the principle that produces it. '^
For, how has this uncertainty of a future state been form-
ed in the mind of the unbeliever? It requires only to
trace the origin of au opinion, to know whether the in
THE CERTAIjYTY OF A FUTURE STATE. %%^
ferests of truth, or the passions, have established it on
the earth.
At his birth the impious man bore the principles of
natural religion common to all men : He found engra
ven on his heart a law, which forbade violence, injus-^
tice, treachery, and every action to another, which he
would not have done to himself; education fortified
these sentiments of nature ; he was taught to know a
Ood, to love and to fear him ; the principles of vii-tue
were exhibited to him ; it was rendered amiable to him
by example : and though, within himself, he felt incli-
nations in opposition to duty, yet, when he yielded to
then* seductions, his heart secretly espoused the cause of
virtue, against his own weakness.
Thus did the impious man at first live on the earth.
With the rest of mankind, he adored a Supreme Being;
respected his laws ; dreaded his chastisements ; and look--
ed forward to his promises. Whence comes it, then, tLat
he no longer acknowledges a Ood ; that crimes ?' pear
to him as the objects of human regulations ; hell a vulgar
prejudice; a future state a chimera; and the soul a
spark, which is extinguished with the body? By what
exertion has he attained to the knowledge of things so
new, and so surprising ? By what means has he suc-
ceeded to free himself from those ancient prejudices, so
deeply implanted in men, so consistent with the feelings
of his heart, and the lights of reason? Has he searched
into, and maturely examined them? Has he adopted
every solid precaution, which an affair, the most impor-
tant of life, requires ? Has he withdrawn himself from
the society of men, to allow leisure for reflection and
study? Has he purified his heart, lest the passions may
Uai^e misled him? Wliat anxious attentions and solici-
^àô sEitJfoj\ vin
tiide to investigate the truth are required, to reject the
first feelings which the soul has imbibed !
Listen, my brethi'en, and adore the justice of God to*
wards these corrupt hearts, whom He delivers up to the
Vanity of their own judgment. In proportion as his mo-
rals become dissolute, the rules of virtue have appeared
suspicious ; in proportion as he becomes debased, he
has endeavoured to persuade himself, that man is like
the beast. He is become unrighteous, only by shutting
up every avenue which might lead him to the truth ; by
no longer regarding religion as an important concern ;
by searching into it, only for the purpose of dishonour-
ing it by blasphemies and sacrilegious witticisms : He
is become sinful, only by seeking to steel himself against
the cries of his own conscience, and delivering himself
up to the most infamous gratifications. It is by that
path that he has attained to the wonderful and sublime
science of inci-edulity; it is to these grand efforts that he
owes the discovery of a truth, which the rest of men be-
fore him had either been ignorant of, or had detested.
Behold the source of unbelief, the corruption of the
heart. Yes, my brethren, find me, if you can; Men, wise,
temperate, pure, regular, and lovers of truth, who be-
lieve not in a God ; w ho look forward to no future state ;
who regard adulteries, abominations, and incest, as the
inclinations and innocent pastimes of nature. If the world
has seen impious characters, who bore the semblance
of wisdom and temperance, it was either that they better
concealed their irregularities, in order to give more credit
to their impiety, or it arose from the satiety of pleasures,
which had brought them to that feigned temperance,
debauchery had been the original source of their irreli-
gion ; their hearts were corrupt before their faith was
THE CERTAIJ\TY OF A FUTURE STATE. ^31
wrecked ; they were interested in believing that all dies
with the body, before they succeeded in persuading them-
selves of it; and a long indulgence of luxury, had fully
disgusted them with guilt, but had not rendered virtue
more amiable to them.
What consolation for us who believe, that we must
first renounce probity, modesty, manners, and all the
feelings of humanity, before we can renounce faith ;
and to be no longer Christian, must first cease to be
men !
Behold, then, the uncertainty of the unrighteous, al-
ready suspicious in its principle ; but, secondly, it is
foolish in the proofs on wiiich it depends.
For surely, very decisive and convincing proofs must
be required to make us espouse the cause of unbelief,
and to render us tranquil, on what we are told of an
eternal state to come. It is not natural, that man should
hazard an interest so serious as that of eternity, on light
and frivolous grounds: still less so, that he should
thereon abandon the general opinion, the belief of his
fathers, the religion of all ages, the agreement of all na~
tions, and the prejudices of his education ; had he not,
as it were, been forced to it by the evidence of the truth.
Unless absolutely convincedrthat all dies with the body^
nothing can bear a comparison with the madness and
folly of the unbeliever. Now, is he completely convin-
ced? What are the powerful reasons which have deter-
mined him to adopt this vile cause ? We know not,
says he, what happens in that other world of which you
tell us ; the good die equally with the wicked ; man as
the beast ; and no one returns, to say which was in the
error. Press him a little fui'ther, and you will be shocks
ed to see the weakness of unbelief ; vague discourses,
SEBMOJSr Via.
hackneyed suspicions, everlasting uncertainties, and chi,-
m^rical suppositions, on which nobody in his senses
\ ouid wish to risk the ha,ppiness or disquiet of a single
day, and upon whjch he, however, hazards an eternity»
Behold the insurmountable proofs which the free-
thinker opposes to the belief of the rest of mankind;
behold that evidence, which, in his mind, prevails over
all that is most clear, and most established on the earth.
^' We know nothing of what passes in that other world
of which you tell us — '^ O man ! open here thine eyes,
A single doubt is. suflBcient to render thee irreligious :
and all the proofs of religion are too weak to make thee
a believer. Thy mind hesitates to believe in a futur^
state, and in the mean time, thou livest as though there
were none. The only foundation thou liast for thin^
opinion, is thine uncertainty ; and thr/U makest it a re^
proach to us, that faith is a vulgar credulity!
But I ask. On which side here is credulity ? Is it
on that of the freethinker, or the faithful ? The latter
believes in a future state, on the authority of the divine
writings ; that is to say, the book, which indisputably
most deserves belief : on the evidence of holy men ; that
is to say, just, pure, and miraculous characters, who
have shed their blood to render glory to the truth, and
to that doctrine, of which the conversion of the universe
has rendered a testimony, that to the end of ages shall
rise up against the impious : on the fulfilment of the
prophecies ; that is to say, on the only feature of truth,
which imposture cannot imitate : on the tradition of all
ages ; that is to say, on facts, which, since the creation
of the world, have appeared certain to all the greatest
characters, to those who have been acknowledged as the
most righteous men, the wisest and most civilized na-
THE CERTAIMTY OF A FUTURE STATE. ^33
lions, the universe could ever boast of; in a word, on
proofs at least probable. The freethinker denies a fu-
turity on a simple doubt, a mere suspicion. Who knows
it ? says he ; who has returned from it ? He has no ar-
gument, either solid or decisive, to overturn the truth of
a future state. If he has, let him avow it, and then will
we submit. He only mistrusts the existence of any thing
after this life, and upon that he believes that all dies
with him.
Now I demand. Which is here the credulous ? Is it
he, who, in support of his belief, has whatever is proba-
ble among men, and most calculated to make impression
on reason ; or he who is resolved to deny the existence
of a future state, on the weakness of a simple doubt ?
Nevertheless, the freethinker imagines that he exerts
his reason more than the believer ; he looks down upon
us, as weak and credulous men ; and he considers him-
self as a superior genius, exalted above all vulgar preju-
dices, and whom reason alone, and not the public opin-
ion, determines. O God ! how terrible art Thou, when
thou deliverest up a sinner to his own infatuation ! and
how well thou knowest how to draw glory to thyself, even
from the efforts which thine enemies make to oppose it.
But I go still further : Supposing even that in the
doubt, formed by the unbeliever, of a future state, the
arguments should be equal, and the trifling uncertainties
which render him credulous, should balance the solid
and evident truths which promise immortality to us ; I
say, that, even in an equality of proofs, he at least ought
to wish, that the doctrine of faith, with regard to the
nature of our soul, were true ; an opinion which is so
honourable to man ; which tells him that his origin is ce-
lestial, and his hopes eternal ; He Qught to wish, that
Vol. I. â8
'^S4b ciiEitMOjsi' lui
the doctrine of impiety wei-e false ; a doctrine so mei-
ancholy, so Immiliatiiig to man ; w bich confounds him
witb the beast; which makes him live onl;y for the body:
gives him neither purpose, destination, nor hope; and lim-
its his lot to a small number of rapid, restless, and sor-
rowful days, which he passes on the earth : AH things be-
ing equal, a reasonable being, born with any degree of el-
evation, would prefer being deceived by what is honoura-
ble to itself, rather than adopt a course so disgraceful to
its nature. What a soul, then, must the unbeliever have
received from nature, to prefer, in so great an inequality
of proofs, the belief, that he is created only for this earth,
and to regard himself with satisfaction as a vile com-
pound of dirt, and the companion of the ox and bull !
What do I say ? What a monster in the universe must be
the unbeliever, who mistrusts the general belief, only be-
cause it is too glorious for his nature ; and believes, that
the vanity of man has alone introduced it on the earth,
and has persuaded him that he is immortal !
But no, my brethren ! These men of flesh and blood,
are in the right to reject the honour which religion does
to their nature ; and to persuade themselves, that their
soul is merely of earth, and that all dies with the body.
Sensual, dissolute, and effeminate men ; who have no
other check than a brutal instinct ; no other rule, than
the vehemence of their desires ; no other occupation,
than to awaken by new artifices, a cupidity already sa-
tiated ; men of that character, can have little difficulty
to believe, tha^t no principle of spiritual life exists within
them ; that the body is their only being ; and, as they
imitate the mantiers of beasts, they are pardonable in
attributing to themselves the same nature. But let them
not judge of all men by themselves ; there are still on
THE CERTAIATY OF A FUTURE STATE. §35
the earth, chaste^ pure, and temperate souls ; let them
not ascribe to nature, the shameful desires of their own
mind ; let them not degrade humanity in general, be-
cause they have unworthily debased themselves; let
them seek out among men, such as resemble themselves ;
and finding themselves almost alone in the universe, they
will then see that they are rather monsters, than the or-
dinary productions of nature.
Besides, not only is the freethinker foolish, because,
even in an equality of proofs, his heart and glory should
decide him in favour of faith, but likewise on the ground
of his own interest : For, as I have already said, What
does he risk by believing ? What disastrous consequence
will follow his mistake ? He will live with honour, pro-
bity, and innocence ; he will be mild, aiFable, just, sin-
cere, religious, a generous friend, a faithful husband, and
an equitable master; he will moderate his passions,
which would otherwise have occasioned all the misfor-
tunes of his life ; he will abstain from pleasures and
excesses, which would have prepared for him a painful
and premature old age, or a deranged fortune ; he will
enjoy the character of a virtuous man, and the esteem of
mankind : — Behold what he risks. Supposing that all
should end with this life, still that is surely the way to
pass it with happiness and tranquility ; such is the only
inconvenience I can find in it. If no eternal recompense
shall follow, what will he have lost by expecting it ? He
has lost some sensual and momentary gratifications,
which would soon have either fatigued him by the dis-
gust which always follows tlieir enjoyment, or tyranni-
zed over him, by the new desires they light up : He
has lost the wretched satisfaction of being, during the
short period he passed on the earth; cruel; unnatural^
âB6 SERMOjsr VIII.
voluptuous^ without faith, morals, or constancy, perhaps
despised and disgraced in the midst of his own people,
I can see no other misfortune ; he sinks back to his ori-
ginal nothingness, and his error has no other conse-
quence.
But if tliere be a future state ; should he deceive him-
self in rejecting faith, what does he not risk ? The loss
of eternal riches ; the possession of Thy glory, O my
God Î which would for ever have rendered him happy.
But even that is only the commencement of his misery ;
he will experience a punishment without end or mea-
sure, an eternity of horror and wrath. >«ow, compare
these two destinies ; what side will the free-thinker a-
dopt? Will he risk the short duration of his days, or
will he endanger a whole eternity ? Will he abide by
the present, which may finish to-morrow, and even in
which he cannot be happy ? Will he tremble at a futu-
rity, which has no other limits than eternity, and can
never finish but with God Himself ? Where is the pru-
dent man, who, even in an equal uncertainty, durst hes-
itate ? And what name shall we give to the unbeliever,
who, with nothing in his favour but frivolous doubts,
while on the side of truth, he beholds the authority, ex-
ample, prescription, proof, and voice of all ages, the
whole world, singly adopts the wretched cause of unbe-
lief ; dies tranquil, as though he were no longer to have
existence ; leaves his eternal destiny in the hands of
chance, and carelessly prepares to encounter so awful
an event — O God Î is this a man conducted by cool rea-
son— or, is he a madman, who looks forward to no re-
source but despair ? The uncertainty of the freethinker
is therefore foolish, in the proofs on which he depends.
But, lastly, it is still more dreadful in its consequent
THE CERTAIA^TY OF A FUTURE STATE, â37
res. And here, my brethren, allow me to lay aside the
deep reasonings of erudition and doctrine ; 1 wish to
speak only to tlie conscience of the unbeliever, and to
confine myself to the proofs which his own feelings ac^
knowledge-
No w, if all shall finish with us, if man have nothing
to expect after this life, and if here be our country, our
origin, and the only happiness we can promise ourselves;
why are we not happy ? If only created for the plea-
sures of the senses, why are they unable to satisfy us ;
and w^hy do they always leave the dregs of weariness
and sorrow in the heart ? If man have nothing superior
to the beast; why, like it, do not his days flow on
without care, uneasiness, disgust, or sorrow, in sensual
and carnal enjoyments ? If man have no other felicity
to expect, than merely a temporal happiness ; why is he
unable to find it on the earth ? Whence comes it, that
riches serve only to render him uneasy ; that honours
fatigue him ; that pleasures exhaust him ; that the scien-
ces, far from satisfying, confound and irritate his curiosi=
ty ; that reputation constrains and embarrasses him ; that
all these, united, cannot fill the immensity of his heart,
and still leave him something to wish for ? All other be-
ings, contented with their lot, appear happy after their
manner, in the situation in which the Author of nature
has placed them ; the stars, tranquil in the firmament^
quit not their station to illumine another world ; the
earth, regular m its movements, shoots not upwards to
occupy their place ; the animals crawl in the fields, with-
out envying the lot of man, who inhabits cities and sump-
tuous palaces ; the birds carol in the air, without trou-
bling themselves, whether there be happier creatures in
the earth than themselves ; all are happy ; every thing
tS8 SE RMoj\r nil.
in nature is in its place : Man alone is uneasy and dis»
contented ; man alone is a prey to his desires, allows
bimself to be torn by fears, finds his punishment in his
liopes, and becomes gloomy and unhappy in the midst
even of his pleasures : Man alone can meet with nothing
here to fix his heart.
Whence comes this, O man ? Must it not be, that
here thou art not in thy place ; tliat thou art made for
heaven ; that thy heart is greater than the world ; that
the earth is not thy country ; and that whatever is not
God, is notliing to thee ? Answer, if thou canst, or rather
question thy heart, and thou wilt believe.
Mlifj If all die with the body, who has been able to
persuade all men, of every age, and of every country,
that their soul was immortal ? From whence has this
strange idea of immortality descended to the human
race ? How could an opinion, so distant from the nature
of man, were he born only for the functions of the senses,
have pervaded the earth ? For if man, like the beast, be
created only for the present ; nothing ought to be more
incomprehensible to him, than even the idea of immor-
tality. Could machines of clay, whose only object
should be a sensual happiness, have ever been able to
form, or to find in themselves, an opinion so exalted, an
idea so sublime ? This opinion, so extraordinary, has
nevertheless become that of all men ; this opinion, so op-
posite even to the senses, since man apparently dies like
the beast, is established on the earth ; this opinion, wJiich
ought not to have even found an inventor in the universe,
has been received with an universal docility of belief,
amongst all nations, the most savage, as the most culti-
vated ; the most polished, as the most brutal ; the most
incredulous, as the most submissive to faith.
THE CERTAIJSTTY OF A FUTURE STATE. ^89
For^ go back to the beginning of ages ; examine all na=
lions ; read tlie history of kingdoms and empires ; listen
to those who return from the most distant isles ; the
immortality of the soul has always been^ and still is, the
belief of every people on the face of the earth. The
knowledge of one God may have been obliterated ; his
glory, power, and immensity, may have been effaced,
as I may say, from the hearts and minds of men ; obsti
nate and savage nations may still live without worship,
religion, or God, in this world ; but they all look for-
ward to a future state ; nothing has ever been able to
eradicate the opinion of the immortality of the soul ; they
all figure to themselves a region, which our souls shall
inhabit after death ; and in forgetting God, they have
never discarded the idea of that provision for them-
selves.
Now, whence comes it, that men who are so different
in their dispositions, worship, country, opinions, inter-
ests, and even figure, that they scarcely seem of the
same species with each other ; unanimously agree, how-
ever, on this point, and expect immortality ? There is
no collusion here; for how is it possible to assemble to-
gether men of all countries and ages? It is not a prejudice
of education; for manners, habits, and worship, which
are generally the consequence of prejudices, are not the
same among all nations ; the opinion of immortality is
common to all. It is not a sectarian idea ; for besides
that it is the universal religion of the world, that tenet
has had neither head nor protector : Men have adopted
it themselves, or rather, nature has taught them to know
it, without the assistance of teachers ; and since the be-
ginning of things, this truth alone has passed from father
to son, and has been always received as indisputable.
^4,0 6ERMojsf Vin
O thou, who believest thyself to be only a mass of clay i
quit the world, where thou findest thyself single in be-
lief; go, and in other regions search for nien of another
species, and similar to the beast : or rather, be struck
with horror, to find thyself single, as it were, in the uni-
verse, rebelling against nature, and disavowing thine
own heart ; and acknowledge, in an opinion common to
all men, the general impression of the author, who has
formed them.
Lastly^ And with this proof I conclude : The univer-
sal fellowship of men, the laws which unite one to the
other, the most sacred and inviolable duties of civil life,
are all founded only on the certainty of a future state.
Thus, if all die with the body, the universe must adopt
other laws, manners, and habits, and a total change
must take place in every thing. If all die with the bo-
dy, the maxims of equity, friendship, honour, good faith,
and gratitude, are only popular errors ; since we owe
nothing to men, who are nothing to us ; to whom no gen»
eral bond of worship and hope unites us ; who will to-
morrow sink back to their original nothingness, and who
are already no more. If all die with us, the tender
names of child, parent, father, friend, and husband, are
merely theatrical appellations, and titles by which we
are described; since friendship, even that springing
from virtue, is no longer a lasting tie ; since our fathers,
who preceded us, are no more ; since our children shall
not succeed us, for the deprivation of life which we must
one day suffer, has no consequence; since the sacred soci-
ety of marriage is only a brutal union, from which, by a
strange and fortuitous concurrence, proceed beings who
resemble us, but who have nothing in common with us
but their mortality.
TUE CERTAINTY aP A FUTURE STATE. â4i
What more shall I add ? If all dies with us^ domes-
dc aunals, and the train of our ancestors^ are only a col-
lection of chimeras ; since we have no forefathers, and
shall have no descendants, anxieties for a name and pos-
terity are therefore ridiculous ; the honours we render
to the memory of illustrious men, proceed from a child-
ish error, since it is absurd to honour what has no ex-
istence ; the sacred respect we pay to the habitations of
the dead is a vulgar illusion ; the ashes of our fathers
and friends, a vile dust which we should cast to tlie
winds, as belonging to no one ; the last wishes of the
dying, so sacred amongst even the most barbarous na-
tions, are only the last sound of a machine which crumbles
in pieces; and, to comprise all in a word, if all die with us,
laws are then a foolish tyranny ; kings and rulers phan-
toms, whom the imbecility of the people has exited ;
justice an usurpation of the liberties of men ; the law of
marriage a vain scruple ; modesty a prejudice ; honour
and probity chimeras ; incests, parricides, and the black-
est villanies, pastimes of nature, and names which the
policy of legislators has invented.
Behold, to what the sublime philosophy of the free-
thinkers amounts; behold that force of argument, that
reason, and that wisdom, which they are continually
vaunting to us ! Agree to their maxims, and the whole
universe sinks back to a frightful chaos ; all is overturn-
ed on the earth ; all ideas of virtue and vice are reversed,
and the most inviolable laws of society vanish; the insti-
tution of morals perishes ; the government of states and
empires is without direction; and all harmony in the body-
politic falls. The human species is only an assemblage
of fools, barbarians, voluptuaries, madmen, and villains,
who own no law but forq^ ; no other check than their
Vol. L S9
passions, and tlie terror of authority ; no other bond
than impiety and independence ; and no other God than
themselves. Beliold the world of the freethinker ! and
if this hideous plan of a republic pleases you, con-
stitute, if you can, a society of these monsters. The
only thing which remains for us to say, is, that you are
fully qualified to occupy a place in it.
How worthy, then, of man to look forward to an
eternal destiny, to regulate his manners by the gospel,
and to live, as having one day to render account of his
actions before Him, who shall weigh us all in the bal-
ance !
The uncertainty of the unbeliever is then suspicious
in its principle, foolish in its proofs, and horrible in its
consequences. But after having shown you, that no-
thing can be more repugnant to sound reason, than the
doubt which he entertains of a future state, let us com-
pletely overthrow his pretexts, and prove, that nothing
is more opposite to the idea of a wise God, and to the
suggestions of his own conscience.
Part II. It is no doubt astonishing, that the free-
thinker should seek, even in the gi^eatness of God, for a
shelter to his crimes ; and that, finding nothing within
himself to justify the horrors of his soul, he can expect
to find, in the awful Majesty of the Supreme Being, an
indulgence which he cannot find even in the corruption
of his own heart.
In reality, says the unbeliever, is it worthy the great-
ness of God, to pay attention to what passes among men];
to calculate their virtues or vices ; to study even their
thoughts, and their trifling and endless desires ? Men,
worms of the earth, who sink into nothing before the
THE CERTMJ^rr OF A FUTURE STATE, ^43
majesty of his looks, are they worthy his attentive in-
«spection ? And, is it not degrading a God, whom we are
taught to believe so great, to give him an employment^
by which even man would be dishonoured ?
But, before I make you sensible of the whole absur-
dity of this blasphemy, I beg you will observe, that it
is the freethinker himself who thus degrades the Majes-
ty of God, and brings liim to a level with man. For,
has the Almighty occasion narrowly to observe men, in
order to know every thought and deed ? Are cares and
attentions necessary for him, to see what passes on the
earth ? Is it not in him that we are, that we live, that
we act? And can we shun his looks, or can He even
avert them from our crimes ? What folly, then, in the
freethinker, to suppose, that it requires care and observa-
tion from the Divinity, if he wishes to remark what pas-
ses on the earth ! His only employment is to know and
enjoy himself.
This reflection admitted ; I answer, in the first place,
if it become the greatness of God to leave good and e-
vil without punishment or reward, it is then equally in-
different, whether we be just, sincere, friendly, and char-
itable ; or cruel, deceitful, perfidious, and devoid of affec-
tion : God, consequently, does not love virtue, modesty,
rectitude, religion ; more than debauchery, perjury, im-
piety, and treachery; since the just and the impious,
the pure and the impure, shall experience the same lot,
and an eternal annihilation equally awaits them in the
grave.
What do I say ? God seems even to declare in this
world, in favour of the impious against the just. He
exalts the former like the cedar of Lebanon ; loads him
with riclies and honours ; gratifies his desires, and as
^44 SEliJlOJS/' VI IL
sists liîs projects ; for the impious are in general the-
prosperous of the earth. On the contrary. He seems to
neglect the upright man ; He humbles^ afflicts, and de-
livers him up to the calumny and power of his enemies ;
for disgrace and affliction are the common portion of the
good here below. What a monster is this Supreme Be-
ing, if all must finish with man^ and if neither miseries
nor rewards, except those in this life, are to be expect-
ed ! ÏS he, then, the protector of adulteries, profanations,
and the most shocking crimes ; the persecutor of inno-
cence, modesty, piety, and the purest virtues ? Are his
favours the price of guilt, and his punishments the re-
compence of virtue ? What a Crod of darkness, imbecil-
ity, confusion^ and iniquity, does tiic freethinker form to
himself!
What, my brethren ! It would become His greatness
to leave the world He has created, in a state of general
confusion ; to see the wicked almost always prevail
over the upright ; the innocent crushed by the usurper ;
the father^ the victim of an ambitious and unnatural son !
From tlie height of his greatness, God would amuse
himself with these horrible transactions, without any
interest in their commission ! Because He is great, He
should be either weak, unjust, or cruel ! Because men
are insignificant, they should have the privilege of being
dissolute without guilt, or virtuous without merit.
O God ! if such be the character of thy Supreme Be-
ing; if it be Thee whom we adore, under such shocking
ideas, I acknowledge Thee no more, tlien, as my hea-
venly Father, my protector, the consoler of my suffer-
ings, the support of my weakness, and tlie rcwarder of
my fidelity ! Tliou art then only an indolent and capri*
rious tyrant, who sacrificest all men to thy vain pride,
THE CERTAL^ TY OF A FUTURE STATE. %^$
and hast drawn them from nothing, only to serve as the
sport of thy leisure or caprice.
For, lastly, If there be no future state, what design
worthy of his wisdom, could God have conceived in cre-
ating man? What! can it be, thatiu forming them, he
had no other view than in forming the beast ! that Man^
so nohle a being, who is capable of such sublime thoughts^
such vast desires, and such grand sentiments, susceptible
of love, truth, and justice ; that Man, of all creatures a-
lone worthy of a great destiny, that of knowing and loving
the Author of his being ; that man, sliould be made only
for the earth, to pass a small portion of days, like the
beast, in triPiing employments, or sensual gratifications — ^
that he should fulfil his destiny by acting a part so ridicu-
lous and so humiliating; and afterwards should sink back
ix) nonentity, without any other nse having been made
of that vast mind and elevated heart, which the Author
of his being had given him ? 0 God ! where would here
be thy wisdom, to have made so grand a work for the
duration only of a moment ; to have exhibited men upon
the earth, only as the playful essays of thy power; or to
amuse thy leisure by a variety of shows ! The Deity of
the freethinker is not great, therefore, but because he is
more unjust, capricious, and despicable, than men ! Pur-
sue these reflections, and support, if you can^ all the ex-
travagance of their folly.
How worthy, then, of God, my brethren, to watch o
ver the universe ; to conduct man, whom he has created,
by the laws of justice, truth, charity, and innocence; to
make virtue and reason the bond of union, and the
foundation of human society. How worthy of God, to
love in his creatures those virtues which render himself
amiable : to hate tha vices which disfi2;ur6 in them his
^16 SEBMOJV VIII
image ; not to confound for ever the just with the impi^
pious ; to render happy with himself, those souls who
have lived only for him ; and to deliver up to their own
misery, those who believed they had found a happiness
independent of him !
Behold the God of the Christians ; behold that wise^
just, and holy Deity, whom we adore ; and the advan-
tage we have over the freethinker is, that ours is the
God of an innocent and pure heart ; the God whom all
creatures manifest to us ; whom all ages have invoked ;
whom the sages even of Paganism, have acknowledged ;
and of whom nature has deeply engraven the idea on
the very foundation of our being !
But, since God is so just, ought He to punish as
crimes, those inclinations for pleasure which are born
with us ; nay, which he alone has given us ? With this
last blasphemy of impiety, the last part of this discourse,
I shall briefly conclude.
In the first place, Be you who you may, who hold
this absurd language, if you pretend to justify all your
actions by the inclinations which lead you to them ; if
whatever we wish become legitimate ; if our desires
ought to be the only guide of our duties ; on that principle,
you have only to regard, with an envious eye, the for-
tune of your brother, to acquire a right to despoil him of
it ; his wife, with a corrupt heart, to be authorized to
violate the sanctity of the nuptualbed, in opposition to the
most sacred rights of society and nature. You have on-
ly to suspect, or dislike an opponent, to become entitled
to destroy him ; to bear, with impatience, the authority
of a father, or the severity of a master, to imbrue your
Imnds in their blood : In a word, you have only to bear
THE CERTAIJ^TY OF A FUTURE STATE. ^47
withiii you the impressions of every vice, to be permitted
the gratification of all ; and as each finds the fatal seeds
in himself, none w^ould be exempted from this horrible
privilege. It is necessary, therefore, that man should
conduct himself by other laws than his inclinations, and
another rule than his desires»
Even the age of Paganism acknowledged the neces-
sity of a philosophy, that is to say, of a light superior to
the senses, which regulated their practice, and made
reason a check to the human passions. Nature alone
led them to this truth, and taught them, that blind in-
stinct ought not to be the sole guide of the actions of
men : This instinct, therefore, either is not the original
institution of nature, or it must be a corruption of it ;
since all the laws ever framed on the earth have avow-
edly been made to restrain it ; since all those who, in
every age, have borne the character of wise and virtu-
ous, have rejected its impressions ; since, amongst all
nations, those mfamous individuals, who have yielded
themselves up, without reserve or shame, to brutal sen-
suality, have been always considered as monsters, and
the disgrace of humanity ; and the maxim once establish-
ed, that our inclinations and desires cannot be consider-
ed as crimes ; society can no longer exist, men must sep=
arate to be in safety, must bury themselves in the forests,
and live in solitude like the beasts.
Besides, let us render justice to men, or rather to the
Creator w ho has formed us. If we find within us incli-
nations to vice and voluptuousness, do we not also find
sentiments of virtue, modesty and innocence ? If the law
of nature drag us towards the pleasures of the senses ;
do we not also bear, written in our hearts, another law.
which recalls us to chastity and temperance ? Now be-
:i48 SEliMOJK' viii.
tween these two tendencies, why does the freethinker
decide, that the inclination which impels us towards the
senses is most conformable to the nature of raaa ? Is it
from being the most violent ? But its violence alone is a
proof of its disorder ; and whatever comes from nature
ought to be more moderate. Is it from being the strong-
est? But there are just and believing souls, in whom it
is always subject to reason. Is it from being more a-
greeable ? A sure proof, that this pleasure is not made
to render man happy, is, that disgust immediately fol-
lows it ; and likewise, that to the good, virtue has a
thousand times more charms than vicci Lastly, Is it
from being more worthy of man ? You dare not say so,
since it is through this that he confounds himself with
the beast. W hy, then, do you decide in favour of the
senses, against reason, and insist, that it is more con-
formableîo'man, to live like the beast, than to be a rea^
sonable being î>
Lastly, were all men corrupt ; and, like the animals
not gifted with reason, did they blindly yield themselves
up to their brutal instinct, and to the empire of the sen-
ses and passions ; you, then, perhaps, might have rea-
son to say, that these are inclinations inseparable from
nature, and, in example, find a sort of excuse for your
excesses. But look around you : Do you find no righ^
teous on earth ? We are not now speaking of those vain
discourses you so frequently utter against piety, and of
which you yourselves feel the injustice : Speak candid-
ly, and render glory to the truth. Are there no longer
chaste, faithful, and righteous souls, Avho live in the fear
©f the Lord, and in the observance of His holy law?
Whence comes it, then, that you have not the same-
empire over your passions enjoyed by these just men ?
THE CERTAmTY OF A FUTURE STATE, 24:9
Have they not inherited from nature the same inclina-
tions ? Do the objects of the passions not awaken^ in
their hearts, the same sensations as in yours ? Do they
not bear within them the sources of the same troubles ?
What have the just, superior to you, but that com-
mand over themselves, and fidelity, of which you are
destitute ?
O man ! Tliou imputest to Grod a weakness, whicli
is the work of thine own disorders Î Thou accusest the
Author of nature of the irregularities of thy w ill ; it is
not enough to oifend him, thou wishest to make him
responsible for tliy deeds, and pretendest, that the fruit
of thy crimes becomes the title of thine innocence ! With
what chimeras is a corrupt heart capable of feeding its
delusion, in order to justify to itself the shame and infa-
my of its vices.
God is then just, my brethren, when He punisheth the
transgressions of his law. And let not the freethinker
here say to himself, that the recompence of the just shall
then be resurrection to eternal life, and the punishment
of the sinner, the everlasting annihilation of liis soul ;
for this is the last resource of impiety.
What punishment would it be to the freethinker to
exist no more ? He wishes that annihilation ; he looks
forward to it as his sweetest hope : Amidst his plea-
sures, he lives tranquil only in that expectation. What !
The just God — would He punish a sinner, by according
to him a destiny to the summit of his wishes ! Ah ! it is
not thus that God punisheth. For, what would the
freethinker find so shocking in a return to nonentity ?
Would it be in the deprivation of his God ? Alas ! he
loves him not ; he knows him not ; he desires no com»
niunication with him: for his only God is liimself. Would
Vol. T. 30
â50 sebmojY VIII.
it be to exist no more ? What could be more desirable
to a monster, who Icnows that, beyond the term of his
crimes, he cannot live but to suffer, and to expiate the
hoiTors of an infamous life ? Would it be, in having
for ever lost the worldly pleasures he enjoyed, and the
4lifferent objects of his passions ? But when he exists no
more, the love of these must equally be extinguished.
A more desirable fate cannot, therefore, be pointed out
to tlie freethinker. This, indeed, would be the happy
conclusion of uU his excesses, horrors, and blasphe-
mies.
No, my brethren ! The hopes of the freethinker, but
not his crimes, shall perish ; his torments shall be as
eternal as his debaucheries would have been, had he
been master of his own destiny. He w^ould willingly
have made himself immortal on the earth, in the practice
of every sensual vice. Death has bounded his crimes,
but has not limited his criminal desires. The just and
upright Judge, who fathoms the heart, will therefore
proportion the punishment to the guilt.
What are we to conclude from tliis discource ? That
the freethinker is to be pitied, for grounding the only
consolation of his future destiny on the uncertainty of
the truths of the gospel : That he is to be pitied, be-
cause his only tranquility must be found, in living with-
out faith, worship, confidence, or God ; because the only
hope that he can indulge is, that tlie gospel is a fable ;
the belief of all ages a childish credulity ; the universal
opinion of men a popular errour ; the first principles of
nature and reason, prejudices of education ; the blood of
so many martyrs, whom the hopes of a future state sup-
ported under all their sufferings and tortures, a mere
tale, concerted to deceive mankind ; the conversion of
THE CERTAmVT OF A FUTURE STATE. â5i
tlie world a human enterprise ; and the accomplishment
of the promises^ a mere stroke of chance : In a word^
that every things the best established^ and the most con=
sistent with truth and reason in the world, must be false,
to save him froîu eternal misery.
O man ! I will point out to thee a much surer way to
render thyself tranquil. Dread that futurity thou for-
cest thvselfto disbelieve. Ask no more what takes
place in that other world, of which thou art told, but ask
thyself, incessantly, what thou art doing in this : quiet
thy conscience by the innocency of thy life, and not by
the impiety of thy unbelief; give repose to thy heart, by
calling upon God, and not by doubting that He pays at-
tention to thee. The peace of the unbeliever is despair.
Seek, then, thy happiness, not by freeing thyself from
the yoke of faith, but by tasting how sweet and agreea-
ble it is. Follow the maxims it prescribes to thee, ancî
thy reason will no longer refuse submission to the mys-
teries it commands thee to believe. A future state will
cease to appear incredible to thee, from the moment thou
ceasest to live like those, who centre all their happiness
in the fleeting moments of this life. Then, far from
dreading a futurity, thy wislies will anticipate it. Thou
wilt sigh for the arrival of that happy day, when the
Bon of man, the Father of all future ages, shall come to
punish the unbelieving, and to conduct thee to His king-
dom, with those who have lived on the earth in the ex^
}>ectation and hope of a blessed immortality. Amen.
SERMON IX
ON DEATH,
LùKE vii. lî
JVoît% lahen Ile carne nigh to the gate of the city, behold^
there was a dead man carried out, the only son of hie
mother, and she was a widow.
Was death ever accompanied with more affecting cir-
cumstances ? An only son, the sole successor to the
name, titles, and fortune of his ancestors^ is snatched from
an afflicted mother and widow ; he is torn from her in
the flower of youth, and almost at his entry into life ; at
a period wlien, happily past the dangers of infancy, and
having attained to that first degree of strength and rea-
son at which manhood commences, he seemed least ex-
posed to the shafts of death, and maternal tenderness
was at last allowed a respite from the fears wliich ac-
company the uncertain progress of education. The ci-
tizens run in crouds, to mingle their tears with those of
ÙJ\r DEATH. â0S
flie disconsolate mother ; they assiduously seek to lessen
her grief, by oftering those vague and common-place
consolations, to which profound sorrow seldom attends ;
with her they surround the mournful bier, and add to the
solemnity by their presence and their mourning ; the
train of this funeral pomp appears to them as a show ;
but does it convey any instruction ? They are struck
and affected, but are they thence less attached to life ?
And will not the remembrance of this death fade from
their mintls, with the noise and decorations of the fune-
ral?
To similar examples, we every day bring the same
dispositions. The feelings which an unexpected death
awakens in our hearts, are the feelings of a day, as
though death itself ought to be the concern of a day. We
exhaust ourselves in vain reflections on the inconstancy
of human things ; but the object which struck us, once
out of sight, the heart having recovered its tranquility^
remains still the same. Our projects, our cares, our
attachments to the world, are not less lively, than if we
were labouring for eternal ages ; and at our departure
from a melancholy spectacle, where we have sometimes
seen birth, youth, titles, and fame, wither in a moment,
and for ever buried in the grave ; we return to the world
mor^ occupied with, and more eager than ever after
those vain objects, whose insignificancy and meanness
we had so lately seen with our eyes, and almost felt
with our hands.
Let us now examine the causes of so deplorable a
mistake. Whence comes it, that men reflect so little
upon death, and that the thoughts of it make such tran-
sitory impressions? It is from this : The uncertainty of
death amuses iis, and removes from our mind its remem-
^o4i ^SEHMOjV IX
brance : The certainty of deatli appals^ and forces us {&
turn our eyes from the gloomy picture. The uncertain.»
ty of it lulls and encourages us ; whatever is awful and
certain^ with regard to it, makes us dread the thoughts
of it. Now, I wish on this occasion to combat the dan-
gerous security of the first, and the improper dread of
the other. Death is uncertain ; you are therefore im-
imprudcnt not to be occupied with the thoughts of it,
and to allow it to surprise you : Death is certain — you
are then foolish to dread the thoughts of it, and it ought
never to be out of your sight : Think upon deatli, because
you know not the hour it will arrive : Think upon death,
because it must arrive. This is the subject of the present
discourse.
Paut I.— The first step which man makes in life, is
likewise the first towards the grave : From the moment
his eyes open to the light, the sentence of death is pro-
nounced against liini ; and, as though it were a crime
to live^ it is sufficient that he lives to make him deser-
ving of death. That was not our first destiny : The
Author of our being had at first animated our clay with
a breath of immortality : He had placed in us a seed of
life, v/hich neither the revolution of years nor of time
could have weakened or extinguished : His work was
so perfect, that it might have defied the duration of ages,
while nothins; external could have dissolved, or even in-
jured its harmony. Sin alone withered this divine seed,
overturned this blessed order, and armed all created be-
ings against man, and Adam became mortal, from the
moment he became a sinner : '' By sin/' said the A-
postle, " did death enter into the world.''
From our birth, therefore, we all bear it within us*
It appears^ that, in our mother's womb, we have sucked
in a slow poison, with which we come into the world ;
which makes us languish on the earth, some a longer^
others a more limited period, but which always termi-
nates in death : We die every day ; every moment de=
prives us of a portion of life, and advances us a step to-
wards the grave : The body pines ; health decays ; and
every thing which surrounds, assists in our destruction ;
food corrupts ; medicines weaken us ; the spiritual fire^,
which internally animates, consumes us ; and our whole
life is only a long and painful sickness. Now, in this
situation, what iaiage ou2;ht to be so familiar to man as
death ? A criminal condemned to death, whichever way
he casts his eyes, can see nothing but this melancholy ob-
ject. And does the longer or shorter period we have to
live make a sufficient difference, to entitle us to think
ourselves immortal on this earth?
It is true, that the measure ofour destiny is not alike ^
Some see their days grow in peace upon them to the
most advanced period, and, inheritors of the blessings of
the primeval age, expire full of years, in the midst of a
numerous posterity; others, arrested in the middle of
their course, see, like King Hezekiah, the gates of the
grave open for them, while yet in their prime ; and, like
him, " seek in vain for the residue of their years :"
There are some who only show tliemselves as it were
on the earth ; who finish their course With the day, and
who, like the flowers of the field, leave scarcely an inter <■
val betwixt the instant which beholds them in their
bloom, and that which sees them withered and cut off.
The fatal moment marked for each is a secret written in
the book of life, which the Lamb of God alone has a
right to open. We all live, then, uncertain of the dura
^56 SERMOJ^^ IX.
fcion of our life ; and this uncertainty, which of itself
ought to reader us watchful of our last hour, even lulls
our vigilance. We never think on death, because we
know not exactly in what age of life to place it : We
even regard not old age as the sure and inevitable term
of existence : The doubt of ever reaching that period,
which surely ought to fix and limit our hopes to this
side of decrepitude, serves only to stretch them beyond
it. Unable to settle itself on any thing certain, our dread
becomes a vague and confused feeling, which fixes on
nothing ; in so much that tliis state of uncertainty, which
ought to regard only the length or brevity of it, ren-
ders us tranquil as to our existence itself.
^ow I say, in the first place, that of all situations,
this is the most rash and imprudent ; for the truth of
which I appeal to yourselves. Is an evil which may
take place every day, to be less regarded, than another
which threatens you only at the expiration of a number
of years ? What 1 because your soul may every moment
be recalled, would you tranquilly live as though you
were never to lose it? Because the danger is always
present, does circumspection become less necessary ? In
what other situation or circumstance of life, except that
of our eternal salvation, does uncertainty become an ex-^
cuse for security and neglect ? Does the conduct of that
servant in the gospel appear to you prudent, w ho, under
pretence that his master delayed to return, and that he
knew not the hour when he should arrive, applied his
property to his own purposes, as if he never were to
render account of it ? What other motives has Jesus
Christ made use of, to exhort us to incessant watching ?
and what in religion is more proper to awaken our vigi
iance, than the uncertainty of this last day.
Ojsr DEATH, â57
Ah ! my brethren^ were the hour unalterably appoint-
ed for each of us ; were the kingdom of God, like the
stars, subject to a certain revolution ; at our birth, did
we bear inscribed on our foreheads the number of our
years, and the fatal day which shall terminate them ;
that fixed and certain object, however distant, would in-
cessantly employ our thoughts, would agitate, and de-
prive us of every tranquil moment ; we would always
regard the interval before us as too short; that object,
always present in spite of ourselves to our mind, would
disgust us with every thing ; would render every plea-
sure insipid, fortune indifferent to us, and the whole
world a tiresome burden : That terrible moment, which
we could never lose sight of, would calm our passions,
extinguish our animosities, disarm revenge, repress the
struggles of the flesh, and mingle itself in all our
schemes ; and our life, thus limited to a certain num-
ber of days, fixed and known, would be passed only
in preparation for that last moment. Are we in our
senses, my brethren? Death seen at a distance, at a
sure and fixed point, would fill us with dread, detach
us from the world and ourselves, call us to God, and
incessantly occupy our thoughts ; and this same death,
uncertain, which may happen everyday, every instant;
this same death, which will surprise us when we least
expect it, which is perhaps at the gate, engages not our
attention, and leaves us tranquil ; what do 1 say ? leaves
us all our passions, our criminal attachments, our ardour
for the world, pleasures, and fortune ; and because it is
not certain that Ave shall die to-day, we live as if we
were to exist for ever.
Observe, my brethren, that this uncertainty is in effect
accompanied with all the circumstances most capable
VoL I. 31
of alarming, or at least of engaging tlie attention of a
prudent man, who makes any use of his reason. In the
first place, that dreadful event by which you will be
surprised, is not one of those rare and singular accidents,
w hich befall only some unfortunate w retches, and which
it is more prudent to disregard than to foresee. When
I speak of your being surprised by death, 1 do not mean
that the thunder should fall upon your heads, that you
should be buried under the ruins of your palaces, that
you should be swallowed up by the waves, nor many
other accidents, whose singularity renders them more
terrible, though less dreaded ; it is a common evil ; not
a day passes, without furnishing some examples ; al-
most all men are sur[)rised by death; all see it approacli,
while they believe it yet at a distance ; all say to them-
selves, like the foolish man in the gospel, '^ Why should
I be afraid ? I have many years yet to come, '^ Li this
manner have you seen the departure of your relations,
friends, and almost all those whose death you have wit-
nessed ; every instance surprised you ; you expected it
not so soon ; and you endeavour to account for it by hu-
man reasons ; such as the imprudence of the patient, or
the want of proper advice and medicines ; but the only
and true reason is, that the hour of the Lord always
takes us by surprise.
The earth is like a vast field of battle, where we are
every day engaged with the enemy ; you have happily
escaped to-day; but you have witnessed the fall of many,
who, like you, expected to survive ; to-morrow you must
again enter the lists ; and who has told you, that fortune,
so capricious with regard to others, will continue favour-
able to you alone ? and since you at last must perish
there, are you prudent in building a fixed and permanent
OA' BEATH, ^59
habitation^ on the very spot^ perhaps^ hifended for your
tomb ? Place yourselves in any possible situation, there
is not a moment but may be your last, and has actually
been so to some of your bi'ethren ; no brilliant action,
but may terminate in the eternal shades of the grave ;
as Herod was struck in the midst of the servile and fool-
ish applauses of his people : No day set apart for the
solemn display of worldly magnificence, but may con=
elude with your funeral pomp ; as Jezebel was precip-
itated from the windows of her palace the very day she-
had chosen to show herself in her greatest pride and os-
tentation : No festival, but may be the feast of death ; as
Belshazzar expired in the midst of a sumptuous ban-
quet : No repose, but may conduct you to an everlast-
ing sleep ; as Holofei'nes, in the heart of his army, and
the conquerer of many kingdoms and provinces, fell un-
der the stroke of a simple Jewish woman : No disease,
but may be the fatal term of your course ; as every
day, you see the slightest complaints deceive the opinions
of the most skilful, and the expectations of the patient,
and almost in an instant become mortal : In a word,
imagine yourselves in any possible stage or station of life,
and you can v/ith difficulty number those who have been
surprised in a similar situation 5 and what right have
you to exi)ect, that you alone shall be exempted from a
lot common to all? You allow, you confess this; but
these confessions are merely words of course, and are
never followed by a single precaution, to secure you
from the danger.
ândly. Did this uncertainty turn only on the hour,
the place, or the manner of your death, it would appear
less shocking ; for, after all, says St. Augustin, what
niîittcrs it to a Christian, whether he shall expire in the
^60 SERMOJSr IX.
midst of his connections, or in tlie country of strangers \
on the bed of sorrow, or in the bosom of the waves ; pro-
vided he dies in piety and righteousness ? But what
renders death terrible, is, the uncertainty, whether you
shall die in the Lord, or in sin; wliat will be your lot
in that other region, where conditions change no more;
into whose hands, at its departure from the body, your
trembling soul, a stranger and alone, shall fall ; wheth-
er it shall be surrounded with light, and carried to the
foot of the throne on the wings of blessed and happy
spirits, or enveloped in darkness, and cast headlong in-
to the gulf ! You are between these two eternities ; you
know not to which you shall be attached ; death alone
will disclose the secret ; and in this uncertainty, you re-
main tranquil, and indolently wait its approach, as
though it were a matter of no importance to you, and
determined not your eternal happiness or misery ! Ah Î
my brethren, were it even true that all ends with us, the
impious man would still be foolish in saying, "Let us
think not on death ; " let us eat and drink, for to-
morrow we die :'' The more he found life agreeable,
the more reason would he have to be afraid of death,
which to him would, however, be only a cessation of
existence. But we, to whom faitli opens prospects of
punishment, or eternal rewards, beyond the grave ; we,
who must reach the gates of death uncertain of this dread-
ful alternative ; is there not a folly— what do I say ? a
madness, not indeed in expressing the sentiment of the
impious, "Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die,'^
but in living as though we thought like him ! Is it pos-
sible we can remain a single instant unoccupied with
that decisive moment, and without allaying, by the pre-
cautions of faith, that trouble and dread into which this
0;V DEATH. â6l
uncertainty must cast a soul, which has not yet renoun=
ced its eternal hopes ?
^rdly, In all other uncertainties, either the numher of
those who share the same danger, may inspire us with
confidence; or resources, by which we are flattered, may
leave us more tranquil ; or, even at the worst, the dis-
appointment becomes a lesson, which teaches us to our
cost, to be more guarded in future : But, in the dread-
ful uncertainty in question, the number of those who run
the same risk can diminish nothing from our danger ; all
the resources with which we may flatter ourselves on
the bed of death, are, in general, merely illusive ; and
religion itself, which furnishes them, can draw but small
hopes from them : In a word, the mistake is irreme-
diable ; we die only once, and our past folly can never
serve as a lesson to guard us from future en*or. Our
misfortune, indeed, opens our eyes ; but these new
lights, which dissipate our blindness, become useless, by
the immutability of our state, and afford rather a cruel
knowledge of that misery which is prepared for us, and
of the most grievous portion of our punishment, than
wise reflections, which may lead us to repentance.
Upon what, then, can you justify this profound and
incomprehensible neglect of your last day ? On youth,
which may seem to promise you many years yet to come?
Youth ? alas ! the son of the widow of Nairn was young:
Does death respect age, or rank ? Youth ? alas ! that is
what makes me tremble for you ; licentious manners, ex-
cessive pleasures, extravagant passions, ambitious de-
sires, the dangers of war, thirst for renown, and the sal-
lies of revenge ; is it not during the pursuit, or gratifica-
tion of some one of these passions^ that the majority of
men finish their career ? Adonias, might have lived to a
gÔâ SERMOJ\r IX.
good old age, but for his debaucheries ; Absalom, but
for his ambition ; the king of Sichem's son, but for hig
love of Dinah ; Jonatlian, had glory not dug a grave for
him in the mountains of Grilboa. Youth ? Alas ! it is the^
season of dangers, and the rock upon which life gener-
ally splits.
Once more, then. Upon what do you found your
hopes? On the strength of your constitution ? But what
is the best established health ? A spark which a breath
shall extinguish : A single day's sickness is sufficient ta
lay low the most robust. I examine not after this^
>vhether you do not flatter yourselves even on this point;
if a body, exhausted by the irregularities of youth, do
not announce to your own minds the sentence of death ;
if habitual infirmities do not lay open to you the gates
of the grave ç if disagreeable indications do not menace
you with some sudden accident. 1 admit that your days
may be lengthened even beyond your hopes. Alas ! my
brethren, can any period appear long which must at last
come to an end? Look back ; where now are your youth-
ful years ? What trace of reality do they leave in your
remembrance ? No more than a vision of the night ; you
dream that you have lived, and behold all that is left
to you of it: All that interval, which has elapsed
from your birth to the present day, is like a swift arrow,
whose passage the eye can with difficulty see : Had
you begun to live, even with the world itself, the past
would now appear to you neither longer nor more real ;
all the ages, elapsed to the present day, you would look
upon as fugitive moments ; all the nations which have
appeared and disappeared on the earth ; all the revolu-
tions of empires and kingdoms ; all those great events
which embellish our histories, to you would be only the
OJV^ DEATH. â63
different scenes of a show, which you had seen conclu-
ded in a day. Recollect only the victories, the captured
cities, the glorious treaties, the magnificence, the splen-
did events of the first years of this reign ; most of you
have not only witnessed, but have shared in their dan-
ger and glory ; our annals will convey them down to
our latest posterity 5 but to you they are already but a
dream, but a momentary flash, which is extinguished,
and which every day effaces even from your remem-
brance. What, then, is this small portion you have still
to accomplish ? Can you believe that the days to come
have more reality than those already past? Years ap-
pear long, while yet at a distance ; hardly have they
arrived, before they vanish ; they escape from us in an
instant ; and scarcely shall we have looked around us,
when, as if by enchantment, we shall find ourselves at
the fatal period, which still appeared so distant, that we
rashly concluded it would never arrive. Contemplate
the world, such as you have seen it in your youthful
days, and such as you now see it : New personages
have mounted the stage ; the higher parts are filled by
new actors ; new events, new intrigues, new passions,
new heroes in virtue as well as in vice, become the sub-
ject of the praise, derision, or censure of the public ; a
new world, without your having perceived it, has insen-
sibly risen on the wrecks of the first ; every thing pas-
ses with and like you, and a velocity, which nothing can
stop, drags all into the gulf of eternity : Yesterday our
ancestors cleared the way for us ; and to-morrow we
shall do the same for those who are to follow. Ases
succeed each other ; the appearance of the world inces-
santly changes ; the dead and the living continually re^
place and succeed each other : Nothing stands still ^
^64j sEMMojsr IX.
every thing changes, every thing wastes away, everj
thing has an end : God alone remaineth always the
same : The torrent of ages, which sweeps away all
men, flows before his eyes ; and He beholds, with in-
dignation, weak mortals who are carried down by its
rapid course insult him while passing, wish to enjoy
that transitory moment of happiness, and at their de-
parture from it, fall into the hands of his vengeance and
Wrath. Where, says the apostle, amongst us, are now
the wise? And were man even capable of governing
the world, can he merit that name from the moment
that he forgets what he is, and what he must be.
Nevertheless, my brethren, what impression on us
does the instability of every thing worldly make ? The
death of our relations, friends, contemporaries and mas-
ters ? We never think that we are immediately to follow
them ; we think only of decking ourselves out in their
spoils, we think not on the little time they had enjoyed
them, but only on the pleasure they must have had in
their possession : We hasten to profit from the wreck
of each other : We are like those foolish soldiers, who,
in the heat of battle, when their companions are eve-
ry moment falling around them, eagerly load themselves
with their clothes ; and scarcely are they put on, when
a mortal blow deprives them at once of life and of their
absurd decorations. In this manner, the son decks him-
self with the spoils of the father, closes his eyes, suc-
ceeds to his rank, fortune, and dignities ; conducts the
pomp of his funeral, and leaves it more occupied with,
more affected by, the new titles with which he is now
invested, than instructed by the last advices of a dying
parent ; than afflicted for his loss, or even undeceived
with regard to the things of the earthy by a sight which
OJV DEATH, â(J5
places before his eyes their insignificancy, and constant-
ly announces to him the same destiny. The death of
our companions is not a more useful lesson to us : One
leaves vacant an office, which we hasten to obtain ; an-
other promotes us a step in the service ; claims expire
with this one, which might have greatly embarrassed us;
that one now leaves us the undisputed favourite of our
sovereign ; another brings us a step nearer to a certain
dignity, and opens the road to a rank which his death
alone- coald render attainable : on these occasions our
spirits are invigorated; we adopt new measures, and
form new projects ; and, far from our eyes being opened,
by the examples of those whom we see disappear, there
issue, even from their ashes, fatal sparks, which iniiame
all our desires and attachments to the world ; and death^
that gloomy picture of our misery, re-animates more
passions among men, than even all the illusions of life.
What, then, can detach us from this wretched worlds
since death itself seems only to knit more strongly the
bonds, and strengthen us in the errors by which we are
bound to it ?
Here, my brethren, I require nothing from you but
reason. What are the natural consequences which
good sense alone ought to draw from the uncertainty
of death ?
1st, The hour of death is uncertain : Every year,
every day, every moment, may be the last of our life :
it is absurd, then, by attaching ourselves to what must
pass away in an instant, to sacrifice the only riclies which
are eternal ; every thing you do for the earth alone,
ought therefore to appear as lost, since you have no in-
terest there, you can depend on nothing there, and can
carry nothing from it, but what you shall have done for
Vol, I. 3^
3^66 &EMMo.r /.I
heaven : The kingdoms of the earth, and all their gloty^
ought not then for a moment to balance the interests of
your eternal welfare, since the greatest fortune cannot
ensure you a day more than the most humble ; and since
the only consequence which can accrue from it, is a more
deep and bitter sorrow on the bed of death, when you
shall be obliged for ever to part from them ; every care,
every movement, every desire, ought therefore to unite in
establishing for yourselves a permanent and unchange-
able fortune, an eternal happiness, which fadeth not
away.
2dly, The hour of your death is uncertain : You ought
then to expect it every day ; never to permit yourselves
an action, in which you would not wish to be surprised ;
to consider all your proceedings as those of a dying man,
who every moment expects his soul to be recalled ; to act
in every thing, as though you were that instant to ren-
der account of your conduct ; and, since you cannot an-
swer for the time which is to come, so to regulate the
present, that you may have no occasion for the future to
repair its errors.
Lastly, The hour of your death is uncertain : Delay
not, then, your repentance ; hasten your conversion to
the Lord, for the time is short ; you cannot assure your-
selves of a day, and you defer it to a distant and uncer-
tain period to come. Were you unfortunately to swal-
low a mortal poison, would you put off to another day
the trial of the only antidote which might save your life?
Would the agent of death, which you carried in your
bowels, allow of delay and neglect? Such is your state :
If you be wise, have instant recourse to your precau-
tions : You carry death in your soul, since in it you car-
ry sin ; hasten to apply the remedy, since every moment
OA' DEATH. â67
ta precious to îiim, who cannot depend on one ; the poi^
sonous beverage which infects your soul, cannot long be
trifled with ; the goodness of God still holds out to you
a cure ; hasten, once more I say, to secure it, while yet
it is not too late. Should intreaties be necessary to de-
termine your compliance ? Ought not the prospect of re=
lief to be sufficient ? Is it necessary to exhort an unfor-
tunate wretch, just sinking in the waves, to exert his en-
deavours to save himself? Ought you, in this matter, to
have occasion for our ministry? Your last hour ap-
proaches ; you must soon appear before the tribunal of
God. You may usefully employ the momeiit which yet
remains to you ; almost all those, whose departure from
this world you are daily witnessing, allow it to escape
from them, and die without having reaped any advan-
tage from it : You imitate their neglect ; the same sur-
prise awaits you, and, like them, you will be cut off be-
fore the work of reformation has commenced. They
had been warned of it, and in the same manner we warn
you ; their misery touches you not ; and the unfortunate
lot which awaits you, will not more sensibly affect those
to whom we shall one day announce it ; it is a succes-
sion of blindness, which passes from father to son, and
is perpetuated on the earth : We all wish to live better^
and we all die before we have begun to reform.
Such, my bretluen, are the prudent and natural re=
flections which the uncertainty of our last hour should
lead us to make. But if, on account of its uncertainty,
you are imprudent, in paying no more attention to it
than as if it were never to amve ; still less are you ex-
cuseable when we consider its certainty, in striving to
remove that melancholy image from your mind, under
the pretence of its only tending to empoison every com»
»
^68 HERMOJ^^ IX.
fort, and to destroy the tranquillity of life. This is what
I have still to lay before you.
Part II.— Man loves not to dwell upon his nothing-
ness and meanness ; whatever recalls to him his origin,
puts him in mind also of his end, wounds his pride, in-
terests his self-love, attacks the foundation of all his pas.
sions, and gives birth to gloomy and disagreeable
thoughts. To die, to disappear from the earth, to enter
the dark abyss of eternity, to become a corpse, the food
of worms, an object of horror to men, the hideous inmate
of a tomb ; that thought alone revolts every sense, dis-
tracts reason, throws a gloom over the imagination, and
poisons every comfort of life; we dare not fix our
looks on so hideous an image ; we reject that thought,
as the most gloomy and bitter of all ; we dread, we fly
from every tiling which may force its remembrance on
our mind, as though it would hasten the approach of the
fatal hour. Under a pretence of tenderness, we love not
even to hear mention made of our departed friends ; we
take care to divert our attention from the places in which
they have dwelt, from the paintings in which their fea-
tures still exist, and from every thing which, along with
their idea, at the same time awakens that of death,
which has deprived us of them. We dread all melan-
choly recitals ; in that respect, we carry our terrors even
to the most childish superstition ; in every trifle our fan-
cy sees fatal prognostics of death ; in the wanderings of
a dream, in the nocturnal song of a bird, in the casual
number of a company, and in many other circumstances
still more ridiculous ; every where we imagine it before
us, and, for that very reason, we endeavour to expel it
Troia our thoughts.
i
OJV' DEATH. â69
Now, my brethren, these excessive teiTors were par-
donai)le \i\ Pagans, to whom death was the greatest
misfortune, seeing thai they had no expectation beyond
the grave ; and that living without hope, they died with-
out consolation. But it is a matter of astonisliment that
death should be so terrible to Christians, and that the
dread of that image should even serve as a pretext to
remove its idea from their minds.
For, in the first place. I grant that you have reason
to dread that last hour ; but, as it is certain, 1 cannot
conceive why the terrors of it should prevent your mind
from dwelling upon, and endeavouring to anticipate its
evils; on the contrary, it seems to me, that in proportion
as the danger is great to which you are exposed, you
ought more constantly to keep it in view, and to use
every precaution, that it may not take you unawares.
What ! the more the danger alarms you, should it render
you the more indolent and careless ? The excessive ter-
rors of your imagination, should they cure you even of
that prudent dread which operates your salvation ? and
because you dread too much, should you abandon every
thought of it ? Where is the man wliom a lively sense of
danger renders calm and intrepid? Were it necessary to
march through a narrow and steep defile, surrounded on
all sides by precipices, would you order your eyes to be
bound, that you might not see your danger, and lest the
depth of the gulf below should turn your head ? Ah !
my dear hearer, you see the gi^ave open before you, and
that spectacle alarms you ; but, in stead of taking all
the precautions offered to you by religion, to prevent
you from falling lieadlong into the gulf, you cover your
eyes, that you may not see it ; you fly to dissipation, to
chace its idea from your mind : and, like the unfortu-
lyO SERMOJV IX-
uate victims of Paganism, you run to the funeral pile^
your eyes covered, crowned witli flowers, and surround-
ed by dancing; and songs of joy, that you may not have
leisure to reflect on the fatal end to which this pomp con=
ducts, and lest you sliould see the altar, that is to say,
the bed of death, where you are immediately to be sa-
Grificed !
Besides, by repelling that thought, could you likewise
repel death, your terrors would then at least have an
excuse. But think, or think not on it, death always
advances ; every effort you make to exclude its remem-
brance, brings you nearer to it; and at the appointed hour
it v\'ill arrive. What, then, do you gain, by turning your
miod from the thought? Do you lessen the danger? On
the contrary, you augment it, and render a surprise in-
evitable. By averting your eyes, do you soften the hor-
ror of the spectacle ? Alas ! you only multiply its terrors.
Were you to familiarize yourselves more with the
thoughts of death, your mind, weak and timid, would in-
sensibly accustom itself to it : You would gradually ac-
quire courage to view it without anguish, or at least with
resignation, on the bed of death ; it would no longer be
a new spectacle. A long anticipated danger has nothing
astonishing : Death is only formidable the first time that
the imagination dwells upon it ; and it is only when
not expected, and no provision is made against it, that it
is to be dreaded.
But, even if tlic thought should disquiet, and fill you
with impressions of dread and sorrow, where would be
the inconvenience? Are you, while upon the earth, only to
live in a state of indolent ease, and to be solely engrossed
by agreeable and smiling objects ? We should lose our
reason, say you, were w^e to devote our serious attention
OJ\r DEATH, %yi
to this dismal spectacle. We should lose oiir reason !
Alas ! have so many faithful souls, who mingle that
thought with all their actions ; who make the remem-
brance of that last hour the check to curb their passions^
and the most powerful inducement to fidelity ? so many
illustrious penitents, who have buried themselves alive
in their tombs, that they might never lose sight of that
object ; the holy, who every day suffered death, like the
Apostle, that they might live forever ; have they in con=
sequence of it, lost their reason ? You sliould lose your
reason ! That is to say, you would regard the world as
a place of exile; pleasures as an intoxication ; sin as the
greatest of evils ; places, honours, favour, and fortune
as dreams ; and salvation as the great and only object
worthy of attention : Is that to lose our reason ? Blessed
folly! and would that you from this moment, were amongst
the number of these foolish sages. You would lose your
reason ! Yes, that false, worldly, proud, carnal, and
mistaken reason, which seduces you ; that corrupt rea-
son which obscures faith, encourages the passions,
makes us prefer the present moment to eternity ; takes
the shadow for the substance, and leads all men astray :
Yes, that deplorable reason, that vain philosophy, which
considers the dread of a future state as a weakness.
and because it dreads it too much, seems, in appearance,
or endeavours to force itself not to believe it at all. But
that prudent, enlightened, moderate, and Christian rea=
son ; that wisdom of the serpent, so recommended in the
gospel ; it is in that remembrance that you would find it :
That wisdom, says the Holy Spirit, preferable to all
the treasures and honours of the earth ; that wisdom so
honourable to man, and which exalts him so much above
himself; that wisdom which has formed so many Cliris^
S7S SEMMOJv' IX
tian heroes ; it is the constant image of your last hour,
which will embellish your soul with it. But that
thought, you add, should we take it into our head to
enter deeply into, and to dwell continually upon it,
would probably make us renounce all, and form the most
violent and overstrained resolutions ; that is to say,
would detach you from the world, from your vices, your
passions, your infamous excesses, and make you lead a
chaste, regular, and Christian life, alone worthy of rea-
son : These are what the world calls violent and over-
strained resolutions. But besides ; under pretence of
shunning pretended excesses, would you refuse to adopt
the most necessary resolutions ? Make a beginning at
any rate ; the first transports scon abate ; and it is much
more easy to moderate the excesses of piety, than to
animate its coldness and indolence. Bread nothing from
the excessive fervour and transports of your zeal ; you
can never, in that respect, go too far. An indolent and
sensual heart, such as yours, nursed in pleasures and
effeminacy, and devoid of all taste for whatever apper-
tains to the service of God, does not promise any very
great indiscretions m the steps of a Christian life. You
know not yourselves ; you have never experienced what
obstacles your inclinations will throw in the way of your
simplest exertions in piety. Guard only against cold-
ness and discouragement, they are the only rocks you
have to dread. What blindness ! In the fear of doing too
much for God, we do nothing at all ; the dread of bes-
towing too much attention on our salvation, prevents us
from labouring towards it ; and we lose ourselves for
ever, lest we should too surely attain salvation : Wc
dread chimerical excesses of piety, and we are not afraid
of a departure from, and an actual contempt of piety it-
OA' DEATH. ays
^eif ! Does the fear of doing too much for fortune and
rank, check your exertions^ or cool the ardour of your
ambition? Is it not that very hope which supports and
animates them? Nothing is too much for the world,
but every thing is excessive for God : We fear, and
we grieve lest we should not do enough for an earthly
establishment; and we check ourselves, through the
dread of doing too much for an eternal fortune.
But I go further, and say, that it is a proof of a crim-
inal ingratitude towards God, to reject the thought of
death, merely because it disquiets and alarms you ; for
that impression of dread and terror is a special grace
with which you are favoured by God. Alas ! how ma=
ny impious characters exist, who despise it, who claim
a miserable merit in beholding with firmness its ap-
proach, and who regard it as the annihilation of their
being ! How many sages and philosophers in Christian-
ity, who, without renouncing faith, limit all their reflec^
tions, all the superiority of their talents, to the tranquil
view of its arrival, and who, during life, exert the pow-
ers of their reason, only in preparing for that last moment
a constancy and serenity of mind, equally absurd with
the most vulgar terrors ; a purpose the most imprudent
to which reason can be applied. It is, therefore, a spe»
cial grace bestowed on you by God, when He permits
that thought to have so much power and ascendancy
over your soul ; in all probability, it is the way by
which He wishes to recall you to himself: Should you
ever quit your erroneous and iniquitous courses, it will
be through its influence : Your salvation seems to de-
pend on that remedy.
Tremble, my dear hearer, lest your heart should for»
fify itself against these salutary terrors : lest God should
Vol. T. ^-V
^y<i 6±.lîM0Jsr IX.
withdraw from you this means of salvation, and harden
you against all th-e terrors of religion. A favour, not
only despised, but regarded even as a punishment, is
soon followed by the indignation, or at least the indiffer-
ence, of the benefactor. Should that unfortunately be
the case, then will the image of death leave you in pos-
session of all your tranquillity : You will fly to an en-
tertainment the moment you have quitted the solemnity
of a funeral ; with the same eyes will you behold a hid-
eous corpse, or the criminal object of your passion ; you
will then be even pleased with yourself for having soar-
ed above all these vulgar fears, and even applaud your-
self for a change so terrible for your salvation ! Let
your life then profit by that sensibility, while it is left to
you by God: Let your mind dwell on all the objects pro-
per to recall that image, while yet it has power to dis-
turb the false peace of your passions : Visit the tombs
of your ancestors, in the presence of their ashes, to med-
itate on the vanity of all earthly things ; ask them what
now, in these dark habitations of death, remains of all
their pleasures, dignities, and splendour ? open yourself
these gloomy dwellings, and reflecting on what they liad
formerly been in the eyes of men, see what they now
are ; objects whose presence you with difficulty can sup-
port ; loathsome masses of worms and corruption : Such
are they in the eyes of men ; but what are they in the
sight of God ? Descend, in idea, into these dwellings of
horror and infection, and chuse by anticipation your own
place ; imagine yourself, in that last hour, extended on
the bed of anguish; struggling with death; your limbs be-
numbed, and already seized with a mortal coldness; your
tongue already bound in the chains of death ; your eyes
fixed; and covered with a confused cloud, before which
OJV DEATH. ^75
all things begin to disappear ; your relations and friends
around you^ ofTering up ineffectual wishes for your tecov-
ery, and augmenting your fears and regret by the tender-
ness of their sighs, and the abundance of tlieir tears :
Bring yourself nearer to this sight, so instructive, so in-
teresting ; in the dismal struggles of that last combat, you
prove that you are still in life, only by the convulsions
which announce your death ; the whole world annihila-
ted to you ; despoiled for ever of all your dignities and
titles ; accompanied only by your works, and ready to
appear in the presence of God. This is not a predic-
tion ; it is the history of all those who die every day, to
your knowledge, and it is the anticipation of your own.
Think upon that terrible moment ; the day, perhaps, is
not far removed ; yet, how ever distant it may be, you
will at last reach it, and the interval w ill seem to you
only an instant ; and the only consolation you then can
have, will be, that you have made the study of, and pre-
paration for death, the employment of your life.
To conclude with my final argument : Trace to their
source these excessive terrors, which render the image
and thoughts of death so terrible, and you will undoubt-
edly find them originating from the disorders of a crimi-
nal conscience : li is not death which you dread, it is
the justice of God which awaits you beyond it, to punish
the infidelities and crimes of your life : It is, that you
are not in a state to present yourselves before Him cov-
ered as you are with the most shameful wounds, which
disfigure in you his image ; and that to die in your pre-
sent situation, must be to perish for ever. Purify, then,
your conscience, put an end to, and expiate your crimi-
nal passions ; recall God to your heart ; no longer offer
t,o his sight any thing w^orthy of his anger or punishment ;
^76 ^ERMOJSr IX
place yourselves in a state to hope something after deatby
from his infinite mercy ; Then shall you see that last
moment approach with less dread and trembling ; and
the sacrifice which you shall have already made to God^
of the world and your passions, will not only render ea-
sy, but even sweet and consoling, the sacrifice you will
then make to him of your life.
For say, What has death so fearful to a faithful
soul? From what does it separate him? From a world
which shall perish, and which is the country of the re-
probate ; from his riclies, which torment him, the enjoy-
ment of which is surrounded with dangers, and which
he is forbidden to use in tlie gratification of the senses ;
from his relations and friends, whom he precedes only
for a moment, and who shall soon follow him ; from
his body, which had hitherto been either a stumbling
block to his innocence, or a perpetual obstacle to his ho-
ly desires ; from his offices and dignities, which, in mul-
tiplying his duties, augmented his dangers ; lastly, from
life, which by him had been passed only as in exile,
and in an anxious desire to be delivered from it. What
does death bestow on him, to compensate for what it
takes away ? It bestows unfading riches, of which none
can ever deprive him ; eternal happiness, which he shall
enjoy without fear or remorse ; the peaceable and cer-
tain possession of God himself, from which he can nev-
er be degraded ; deliverance from all his passions, which
had ever been a source of disquiet and distress ; an un-
alterable peace, which he never could find on the earth;
and, lastly, the society of the just and happy, in place
of that of sinners, from whom it separates him. What
then, O my God ! has the world so delightful, to at-
tach a faithful soul ? To him it is a vale of tears, where
OJV DEATH, ^77
dangers are infinite, combats daily, victories rare, and
defeats certain ; where every gratification must be de-
nied to the senses ; where every thing tempts, and is
forbidden to us ; where we must dread and avoid what
most pleases us ; in a word, where, if you suffer not, if
you weep not, if you resist not to the utmost extremity,
if you combat not without ceasing, if you hate not your-
self, you are lost; What, then, in life do you find so
lovely, so alluring, so capable of attaching a Christian
soul ? and death, is it not a gain, and a triumph for
him?
Besides, death is the only object he looks forward to ;
it is the only consolation which supports the fidelity of
the just. Do they bend under afflictions ? They know
that their end is near ; that the short and fleeting tribu-
lations of this life shall soon be followed by a crown of
eternal glory ; and in that thought they find an inex-
haustible source of patience, fortitude, and joy. Do they
feel the law of nature warring against the law of the
spirit, and exciting commotions, wliich bring innocence
to the very brink of the precipice ? They are not igno
rant, that after the dissolution of the earthly frame, it
shall be restored to them pure and celestial ; and that,
delivered from tliese bonds of misery, they shall then
resemble the heavenly spirits ; and that remembrance
soothes and strengthens them. Do they groan under the
weight of the yoke of Jesus Christ, and find their faith
more weak, and on the point of sinking under the rigid
duties of the gospel ? Ah Î the day of the Lord is nigh ;
they almost touch the blessed recompence ; and the end
of their course, which they already see, animates, and
gives them fresh vigour. Hear in what manner the A-
postle consoled the first Christians : My brethren, f^aid
'^'^/^ sEiiMOj\r IX.
he to them, the time is short, the day approaches, the
Lord is at the gate, and He will uot delay ; rejoice then ;
I again say to you, rejoice. Such was the only consola-
tion of men, persecuted, insulted, prescribed, trampled
upon, regarded as the scum of the earth, the disgrace of
the Jews, and the scoff of the Gentiles. They knew
that death would soon dry up their tears ; that for them
there would then be neither mourning, sorrow, nor suf-
fering ; that all would be changed ; and that thought
softened every pain. Ah ! whosoever had told these
generous justifiers of faith, th«,t the Lord %vould never
make them know dcatli, but would leave them to dwell
for ever on the earth ; would have shaken their faith,
tempted their constancy, and, by robbing them of that
hope, would have deprived them of every consolation.
You, my brethren, are no doubt little surprised at this,
because death must appear a refuge to men afflicted and
unhappy as they were. You are mistaken ; it was nei-
ther their persecutions nor sufferings which occasioned
their distress and sorrow ; these were their joy, consola-
tion, and pride : We glory, said they, in tribulations : It
was the state of separation from Jesus Christ in which
they still lired ; that alone was the source of their tears,
and what rendered death so desirable.
While we are in the body, said the Apostle, we are
separated from the Lord ; and that separation was a
state of anguish and sorrow to these faithful Christians :
Piety consists in wishing for a re-union with Jesus
Christ our Head ; in sighing for the happy nïoment
which shall incorporate us with the chosen of God, in
that mystical company, which, from the beginning of the
world, has been forming, of every tongue, every tribe,
and every nation 5 which is the completion of the de-
OA" DEJTH. â79
signs of God, and which will glorify him, with Jesus
Christ, to all eternity. In this world we are like branch-
es torn from their stem ; like strangers wandering in a
foreign land ; like fettered captives in a prison, waiting
their deliverance ; like children, banished for a time
from their paternal inheritance and mansion ; in a word,
like members separated from their body. Since Jesus
Christ, our head, ascended to heaven, the earth is no
longer the place of our establishment ; we look forward,
in blessed expectation, to the coming of the Lord ; that
desire constitutes all our piety and consolation : And
for a Christian, not to desire that happy moment, but to
dread, and even look upon it as a misfortune, is to fly in
the face of Jesus Christ ; to renounce all communication
with him ; to reject the promises of faith, and the glori
ous title of a citizen of heaven ; it is to centre our hap-
piness in the things of the earth ; to doubt of a future
state ; to regard religion as a dream, and to believe that
all dies with us.
No, my brethren, death has nothing to a just soul, bur
what is pleasing and desirable : Arrived at that happy
moment, he, without regret, sees a world perish Avhicli
he had never loved, and which to him had never appear
ed otherwise than a mass of vanity : His eyes closp
with pleasure on all those vain shoAvs which the earth
offers, w hich he had always regarded as the splendour
of a moment, and whose dangerous illusions he had ne-
ver ceased to dread : He feels, without uneasiness, what
do I say ? with satisfaction^ — that mortal body, which
had been the subject of all his temptations, and the fa-
tal source of all his follies, become clothed with immor-
tality : He regrets nothing on the earth, where he leaves
nothing, and from whence his heart flies along with his
â80 SEUMUJ^' IX.
soul : He even complains not that he is cut off in the
middle of his career, and that his days are concluded in
the flower of his age : On the contrary, he thanks his
deliverer for having abridged his sufferings with his
years, for having exacted only a portion of his debt as
the price of his eternity, and for having speedily con-
summated his sacrifice, lest a longer residence in a cor-
rupt v^^orld should have perverted his heart. His tri-
als and moi'tifications, w^hich had cost so much to the
weakness of the flesh, are then his sweetest reflections :
He sees that every thing vanishes, except what he has
done for God ; that all now abandon him ; his riches, re-
lations, friends, and dignities, his works alone remain-
ing ; and he is transported with joy, to think that he
had never placed his trust in tlie favour of princes, in the
children of men, in the vain hopes of fortune, in things
which must soon perish, but in the Lord alone, who
remaineth eternally, and in whose bosom he is about
experience that peace and tranquility, which mortals
cannot bestow . Thus tranquil with regard to the past,
despising the present, transported to touch at last that
futurity, the sole object of his desires ; already seeing the
bosom of Abraham open to receive him, and the Son of
man seated at the right hand of his Father, holding out
for him the crown of immortality; he sleeps in the Lord :
he is wafted by blessed spirits to the habitation of the
holy, and returns to the place whence he originally
came.
May your latter end my brethren, be like this,
Amen.
( 281 )
SERMON X.
ON THE DEATH OF THE SINNER, ANB
OF THE RIGHTEOUS.
E.EV. xiv. 13.
Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord,
The passions of man have something in them stri-
king and incomprehensible. All men wish to live ; they
look upon death as the most dreadful of evils; all
their passions attach them to life ; yet, nevertheless,
those very passions incessantly urge them towards that
death, for which they feel so much horror ; and it would
seem that they only live in order to accelerate the mo^
ment of death.
All men flatter themselves, that they shall die the
death of the righteous ; they hope and desire it. Know-
ing the impossibility of remaining for ever upon earth,
they trust that, before the arrival of their last moment,
^he passions, which at present pollute and hold them iji
Yol. I. 34
captivity^ will be extinct. They tiguie to tlieuiselves,
the lot of a sinner who expires in his iniquity, and un-
der the wrath of God, as the most horrible destiny, yet,
nevertheless, tliey tranquilly prepare the same lot for
themselves. This dreadful termination of human life,
which is death in sin, strikes and appals them ; yet, like
fools, they pursue with satisfaction the road that leads
to it. In vain do we announce to them, that in general
men die as they have lived : They would live the life
of the sinner, and yet, die the death of the righteous.
My intention, at present, is not to undeceive you with
regard to an illusion so common, and so ridiculous,
which shall be reserved for another occasion ; but, since
the death of the righteous appears so earnestly to be
wished for, and that of the sinner so dreadful to you, 1
mean, by a representation of them both, to excite your
desires for the one, and to awaken your just terrors for
the other. As you must finally quit this world in one
of these two situations, it is proper to familiarize your-
selves to the spectacle, that, by placing before your
eyes the melancholy picture of the last, and the sooth-
ing image of the first, you may be enabled to judge
which of the two destinies awaits you ; and, consequent-
ly, to adopt the necessary means to secure the decision
in your favour.
In the picture of the expiring sinner, you will see in
what shall terminate all the glory and all the pleasures
of the world ; from the recital of the last moments of
the righteous, you will learn to what virtue conducts, in
spite of all its troubles. In the one, you will see the
world as it appears to the eye of a sinner in the moment
of death ; and how vain, frivolous, and different from
what it seems at present, will it then appear to you ! In
TUE DEATH OF THE SIXJ^ER, &c, 2S3
the other, you will see virtue from the eyes of the expi-
ring righteous: How grand and estimable will your
heart then acknowledge it to be ! In the one, you will
comprehend all the misery of a soul, which has lived
forgetful of its God : In the other, the happiness of that
which has lived only to please and to serve Him. In a
word, the picture of the death of the sinner, will make
you wish to live the life of the righteous ; and the image
of the death of the just, will inspire you with a holy hor-
ror at the life of the sinner.
Part I. — In vain do we repel the image of death ;
every day brings it nearer. Youth glides away ; years
hurry on ; and, like streams, says the scripture, which
roll their waters to the ocean and return no more to their
source ; we are rapidly urged to the abyss of eternity,
where for ever swallowed up, we can no more appear
upon earth.
I know that the brevity and uncertainty of life fur-
nish us with continual subjects of conversation. The
deaths of our relations, our friends, our companions, fre-
quently sudden, and always unexpected; furnish us with
a thousand reflections on the frailty of every thing ter-
restrial. We are incessantly repeating, that the world
is nothing ; that life is but a dream ; and that it is fool-
ish to interest ourselves so deeply for what must pass so
quickly away. But these are merely words ; they are
not the sentiments of the heart ; they are merely custom-
ary expressions, and custom makes us at the same time
forget them.
Now, my brethren, form to yourselves a destiny, a-
greeable to your own wishes : Lengthen out your days
in your own minds, to a term beyond your most san-
guine hopes. Indulge, if you choose, in the enjoyment
of so pleasing an illusion. You must at last follow the
track which your forefathers have trod : You will at
last see that day arrive, to w hich no other shall succeed ;
and that day w ill be for you the day of eternity : Hap-
py, if you die in the liord ; miserable, if you depart in
siUi One of these lots awaits you; in the final decision
upon all men, there will be only two sides, the right
and the left ; two divisions, the goats and the sheep.
Allow me, then, to recall you to the bed of death, and
to expose to your view the double spectacle of this last
lioUr, so terrible to the sinner, and so consolatory to the
righteous man»
1 say, terrible to the sinner, who. lulled by vain hopes
of conversion, reaches at last this fatal moment, full' of
desires, but void of good works ; having ever lived a
stranger to the Lord, and unable now to make any of-
fering to him, but of liis crimes, while he feels the an-
guish of seeing a period put to those days, which he
vainly believed would have endured for ever. Now,
nothing can be more dreadful than the situation of this
unfortunate wretch, in the last moments of his life!
Whichever way his mind is employed, w^hether in re-
calling the past, or considering what is acting around
him, or whether he penetrates into that awful futurity,
upon the brink of which he hangs ; the only objects
which can occupy his thoughts, or present themselves to
his fîiucy, open to him the blackest prospects, and over-
whelm him with despair.
For what can the past offer to a sinner, who, extend-
ed upon the bed of death, begins to yield up his hopes
of life, and reads, in the countenances of those around
him, the dreadful intelligence, that for him all is finish-
ed? What does he see in that long course of days^
THE DEATH OF THE SIXjYER, &c. ?tS5
which he has passed upon the earth? Alas! only vain
cares and anxieties ; pleasures which passed away be^
fore they could be enjoyed, and iniquities which must
endure for ever.
1 say vain cares.— -His whole life, which now appears
to have occupied but a moment, presents itself to him,
and in it he views nothing but a scene of continued re-
straint, or of endless and useless agitation. He recals
to his mind all he has suffered for a world, which flies
from him ; for a fortune, which is vanishing : for a vain
reputation, which accompanies him not into the presence
of God ; for friends, whom he is about to lose ; for mas-
ters, who will soon forget him : for a name, which will
be written ouly on the ashes of liis tomb What regret
must agitate the mind of this unfortunate wretch, when
he sees that his whole life has been oîie act of continued
toil, yet that nothing has been arcomplinhe.! f(.r himself Î
What regret, to have so often done vioiei.ce r.o his incli-
nations, without gaining the advance of a single step to-
wards heaven ! To have always believed himself too
feeble for the service of God. and yet to have had the
strength and the constancy to fall a martjT to vanity,
and to a world which is on the eve of perishing !
Alas ! it is then that the sinner, overwhelmed, terri-
fied at his own blindness and errors, finding only a blank
in a life which the world had alone engrossed ; percei-
ving, that, after a long succession of years upon earth,
he has not yet begun to live ; leaving history, perhaps,
full of his actions, the public monuments loaded with
the transactions of his life, the world filled with his
name, and nothing, alas ! which deserves to be written
in the book of eternity, or which may follow him into
'he presence of God • then it is. though too late, that he
^286 ;:^Er<jroj\' i.
begins to commune with himself^ in language which wc
have frequent opportunities of heaving : '^ I have lived,
^» tlien, only for vanity : Why have I not served my
(( God, as I have served my earthly masters? Alas! were
'i so many anxieties, and so much trouble, necessary
^^ to accomplish my own destruction? Wliy, at least, did
^^ I not receive my consolation in this \\ orld ? 1 should
^^ have enjoyed the present, tliat fleeting moment which
^^ passes away from me ; and I sliould not then have
^( lost all. But my life has been always filled with anx-
^^ ieties, slavery, fatigues, and restraints ; and all these
^' in order to prepare for me cvcrlastnig misery. What
^^ madness, to have suffered more to effect my own ruin,
^•' than was required to have accomplished my salvation ;
'^ and to have regarded the life of the upright, as a mel-
<• ancholy and an insupportable one : Seeing they have
^^ done nothing so difficult for God, that I have not per-
" formed an hundred-fold for the world, which is no-
^^ thing, and from which I have consequently nothing to
^^ expect. ■'
Yes, my brethren, it is in that last moment that your
whole life will present itself to your view ; but in very
different colours from those in which it appears to you
to-day. At present you count upon services performed
for the state ; places which you have fdled ; actions in
which you have distinguished yourselves ; wounds,
which still bear testimony to your valour ; the number
of your campaigns; the splendour of your orders; all
these appear olijects of importance and reality to you.
The public applause which accompanies them ; the re-
wards by which they are followed ; the fame which ari-
ses from them ; the distinctions attached to them ; all
these only recall your past days to you, as days fully
THE DEATH OF THE SIJ\WEIi, &e. âS7
occupied; marked each by some memorable action, and
by events worthy of being transmitted to posterity. You
even distiguish yourselves, in your own minds, from
those indolent characters of the same rank, who have led
an obscure, idle, or useless life, and dishonoured theh-
names by that slothful effeminacy, which has kept them
always grovelling in the dust. But on the bed of death,
in that last moment, when the world fades away, and
eternity approaches, your eyes will be opened ; the scene
will be changed ; the illusion, which at present magni-
fies these objects, will be dissipated. You will see things
as they really are ; and that which formerly appeared
so grand, when done only for the sake of the world, of
glory, or of fortune, will no longer appear of the least
importance to you. You will then find nothing sub-
stantial in your life, but what you shall have done for
God ; nothing praise-worthy, but works of faith and of
piety ; nothing great, but what will merit eternity ; and
a single drop of cold water in the name of Jesus Christy
a single tear shed in His presence, and the slightest mor-
tification suffered for His sake, w ill appear more preci-
ous and more estimable to you, than all the wonders
which the world admires, and which sliall perish with
it.
Not that the dying sinner finds in his past life, onh
cares and anxieties, he remembers likewise his pleas ^
ures ; but this very remembrance depresses and over
whelms him : His pleasures, have existed only for an
instant, and he now perceives that he has sacrificed his
soul, and his eternal w elfare, to a fleeting moment of
passion and voluptuousness. Alas ! life had appeared
too long to him, to be entirely consecrated to God : He
was afraid to adopt too early the side of virtue, lest he
^8 SERMOjY X.
should be unable to support its duration, its weariness^
and its consequences. He looked forward to the years
he had still to run, as to an immense space, through
which he must travel under the weight of the cross, and
separated from the world, in the practice of Christian
works : This idea alone had always suspended his good
intentions ; and in order to return to God, he waited the
last stage of life, as the one in which perseverance is
most certain. How must he be surprised in this last
hour, to find, that what had to him appealed so long,
has in reality been but an instant ; that his infancy and
old-age so nearly touch each other, that they only form,
as I may say, one day ; and that, from his mother's
breast, he has made but one step to the grave. Nor is
this the most bitter pang which he experiences in the
remembrance of his pleasures : they have vanished like
a dream ; but he, w ho once thought he acquired honour
from them, is now^ covered with confusion and shame at
their recollection : So many shameful excesses ; so
much w^eakness and debauchery, that he, who piqued
himself upon reasron, elevation of mind, and haughtiness
towards man, O my God ! finds himself the weakest,
the most despicable of sinners ! A life of worldly
prudence ; yet perhaps sunk in all the infamy of the
senses, and the puerility of the passions ! A life of glo-
ry in the eyes of men ; but, in the sight of God, the most
shameful, the most deserving of contempt and disgrace !
A life, which success, perhaps, had continually accom-
panied : yet, nevertheless, in reality, the most absurd,
the most trifling, the most destitute of reflection and wis-
dom ! Pleasures, in a word, which have been the source
of all his chagrin ; which have empoisoned every enjoy-
ment of life ; which have changed his happiest days into
Tim DEATH OF TEE SIJsWEB, &c. g89
days of madness and lamentation : pleasures, for which
he has ever paid dear, and of which he has never ex-
perienced but the anxiety and the bitterness : such are
the foundations of this frivolous happiness. His pas=
sions have rendered life miserable to him ; and the on-
ly moments of tranquillity he has enjoyed, in the whole
course of his life, are those in which his heart has been
sheltered from their influence. ' The days of my plea-
sures are fled, ' says then the sinner to himself, but iu a
disposition of mind very different from that of Job :
^ Those days which have occasioned all the sorrows of
^ my life ; by which my rest has been broken, and the
^ calm stillness of the night changed into the darkest
^ and most unquiet thoughts. Yet, nevertheless, great
' God ! Thou wilt still punish the sorrows and distress-
^ es of my unfortunate life ! All the bitterness of my
' passions is marked against me in the book of thy
^ wrath ; and thou preparest for me, in addition to grat-
^ ifications which have been the source of all my mise=
• ries, a misery without measure or end. ^
See what the expiring sinner finds in looking back
on the past ; crimes which shall endure for ever ; the foi=
bles of childhood ; the dissipations of youth ; the pas-
sions and the disorders of a more advanced period ; per-
haps even the shameful excesses of a licentious old age.
Ah ! my brethren, whilst in health, we perceive only
the surface of our conscience ; we recall only a vague
and confused remembrance of our life ; v» e see only the
passions which actually enchain us ; the habits of a
whole life, appear to us only a jingle crime. But, on
the bed of death, the darkness spread over the con=
science of the sinner, is dissipated. The more he search-
es into his heart; the more does he discover new stains ;
Vol. I. 85
^90 Vi.A'Jii>J. Je
the deeper lie culers into that abyss, the iiioie do iieW
mousters of horror present themselves to his sight. He
is lost in the chaos, and knows not how to proceed in
order to reach the light. An entire life wonld be neces-
sary, but Alas! time ilies; scarcely do a few moments
now remain to liim^ and he must hijrry into a confes-
sion, for which the greatest leisure would hardly suffice,
and which can precede but an instant, the awful judg-
ment of the justice of God. Alas ! we often complain,
during life, of a treacherous memory, that we forget eve,
ry thing ; and the minister of God is under the necessi-
ty of awakening our attention, and of assisting us to
know and to judge of ourselves. But in that last mo-
ment, the expiring sinner will require no assistance to
ïecall the remembrance of his crimes : The justice of*^
God, which had delivered him up, during health, to all
ihe profundity of his darkness, will then enlighten him
in his wrath. Every thing around his bed of death will
awaken tha remembrance erf some new crime ; servants,
whom he has scandalized by his example ; children,
whom he has neglected ; a wife, whom he has rendered
miserable by unlawful attachments ; ministers of the
church, whom he has despised ; riches, which he has a-
bused ; the luxury which surrounds him, for which the
poor and his creditors have suffered; the pride and mag-
nificence of his edifices, which have been reared up by
the inheritance of the widow and the orphan, or perhaps
by the public distress : every thing, in a w ord, the hea-
vens and the earth, says Job, shall reveal his iniquity,
and rise up against him ; shall recall to him the fright-
ful history of his passions, and of his crimes.
Thus, the recollection of the past, forms one of the
most dreadful situations of the expiring sinner ; because
THE DEATH OF THE STJ\/j>^'ER, &c.. ^91
ill it he finds nothing but useless anxieties, pleasures^
which have been dissipated at the moment almost of their
existence, and crimes, which shall endure for ever.
But the present moment is not less gloomy for this
unfortunate soul : The unexpectedness of llie approach
of death, his separation from the world and tiic ciiauge
of his state, all agitate and confound him.
1st, The surprise. — He had alway* flattered himselfj>
that the hour of the Lord would not surprise him.
Whatever had been said to him on the subject from the
pulpit, had not deprived him of the belief, that his con-
science would be properly arranged before tiie arrival of
this dreaded raoment ; he has reached it, however, still
loaded with all his crimes, without preparation, without
the performance of a single exertion towards appeasing
the wrath of the Almighty ; he has reached it, while he
least thought of it, and he is now to be judged,
God strikes him in the zenith of his passions ; at the
moment when the thoughts of death were most distant
from his mind ; when he had attained to the places he
had long ardently struggled for ; a,nd when, like the
foolish mau in the gospel, he had exhorted his soul to
rei^ose itself, and to enjoy in peace tlie fruit of its la-
bours. It is in this moment that tlie justice of God sur-
prises him ; and he sees life, with every imaginary hope
of happiness, blasted for ever.
He is on the brink of the gulph, and the Almighty
willeth that no one shall dare to inform liim of his situa-
tion. His relations flatter him ; his friends leave him
undeceived : They already lament him, in secret, as
dead, yet they continue to speak of his recovery ; they
deceive him, in order that he may deceive himself. The
scriptures must be fulOiled : Tlie sinner must be takeii
gyg SERMOJV X.
by surprise in this last moment : Thou hast said it, 0
m^ God ! and Thy words are the words of truth.
Abandoned by all the succours of art, delivered up
alone to anguish and disease, he still cannot persuade
himself that death is near ; he fiatters himself — he still
hopes : The justice of God, it would seem, leaves him
a remnant of reason, in order that he may employ it in
deceiving himself. From his terrors, his astonishment^
his inquietude, we see clearly that he still comprehends
not the necessity of death. He torments, he agitates
himself, as if by these means he could escape death ; but
his agitations are only occasioned by regret for the los*
of life, and are not the elTects of giief for iuiving wick-
edly spent it. Tiie blinded sinner must be so to tht
end ; and his death must be similar to his life.
He sees now that the w^orld has all along deceived
him ; that it has continually led him on from illusion to
illusion, and from hope to hope ; that things have never
taken place exactly as he had promised himself; and
that he has always been the dupe of his own errors. He
cannot comprehend how his blindness could be so con-
stant ; that for such a series of years he could obstinate»
ly continue to make so many sacriiices for the world, and
for masters, whose only payment has been vain promis-
es ; and that his w hole life has been one continued scene
of indifference on the part of the world to him, and of
intoxication on his part, with the world. But what over-
powers hivn is, the impossibility of remedying the mis-
take ; that he can die only once ; and that, after having
lived a life of vice, he cannot retrace his steps, in order
to take a new route. Thou art just, O my God Î and
Thou wiliest that the sinner should pronounce against
himself beforehand, in order that he may afterwards lie
judged from his ow n mouth.
THE DEATH OP THE SLYJ^ER, &c. §93
âcily. The unexpectedness of death to the sinner is^
tlierefore, overwhelming: but the separation which takes
place at that last moment is not less so. The more he
^v as attacîied to the world, to life, to all its works, the
more docs he suffer when a separation becomes inevita-
ble. Every tie, Avhich now must be broken asunder^
becomes a wound which rankles in his heart ; every se-
paration becomes a uew death to his mind.
Separation from the riches which, with such constant
and laborious attention, he had accumulated, by means^
perhaps, repiiguant to salvation ; in the possession of
which lie obstinately persisted, in spite of all the re-
proaches of his conscience ; and which he had cruelly
refused to the necessities of his brethren. They now,
however, escape from him ; this heap of earth vanishes
from before his eyes ; and he carries with him only his
love, his regret for their loss, and the guilt of having ac=
quired them.
Separation from the magnificence which surrounds
him ; from his proud edilkes, where he believed he had
erected a place of refuge from death ; from the vanity
and luxury of his furniture, of which nothing shall re-
main to him but the mournful cloth which is to encircle
him in the tomb ; from that style of opulence in whieh
he had always lived. Every thing escapes from him ,
every thing al^andons him ; and he begins to look upon
himself as a stranger in the midst of his palace, where
indeed he ought always to have considered himself as
such ; as an unknown, who no longer possesses any
thing there ; as an unfortunate wretch, who is about to
be stripped of all before his eyes, and who is only al-
lowed to gratify his sight with the spoils for a little
while, in order to augment his regret and his punish-
ment.
2^é SEJiMOJV X.
Separation from his honours and offices, which lic*^
leaves, perhaps to a rival ; to whicli he liad at last at-
tained, !)j wading through so many dangers, so many
anxieties, and so much meanness, and v/hich he had en»
joyed witli so much insolence and pride. He is already
on the bed of death, stript of all the marks of his digni-
ties, and of all his titles, preserving that of sinner alone^
which he in vain, and when it is now too late, bestows
upon himself. ALas Î in this dying moment, he would
gladly embrace the most servile condition ; he would
accept, as a favour, the most ohscure and the most grov-
elling station, could but his days be prolonged : he en-
vies the lot of his slp.ves, m horn he leaves behind him;
he rapidly advances towards death, and turns back his
eyes with regret, to take a last look at the world.
Separation from his body, for whose gratification he
had always lived, and with which, by favouring all its
passions, he had contracted such lively and intimate
ties — He feels that this habitation of clay is crumbling
into dust; he feels the approaches of death in each of
his senses : he no longer holds to life, but by a carcase
which moulders away, by the cruel agonies which his
diseases make. him feel, by the excess of his love for it,
and which becomes more lively in proportion as he ad-
vances towards the moment of separation.
Separation from his relations, .and friends, whom he
sees surrounding his bed, and whose tears and lamenta-
tions wring his heart, and make him cruelly feel the an-
guish of loosing them for ever : From the a\ orld, w here
he had enjoyed so many distinguished offices ; where
he had established, aggrandised, and settled himself,
as if it had been intended for the place of his eternal
residence: from the world, in whose smiles he had on-
THE DEATH OF THE STJ\JirER, &c. â95
ly lived ; on whose stage he had ever been one of the
principal actors ; in whose transactions he had always
taken such an active part, and where he had figured
with so much splendour, and talents. His body now
quits it ; but his heart, and all his affections, are center-
ed in it still : The world dies to him, bnt he himself, in
expiring, dies not to the world.
To conclude, a separation fTOm all created beings.
Every thing is annihilated around him ; he stretches out
his hands as if to take a last grasp of the objects which
environ him, and he seizes nothing but fleeting shades
whicJi again escape from his hands.
Tlien it is that the Almighty is great in the eyes of
the expiring sinner. It is in that terrible moment, that,
the whole world crumbling and disappearing from his
sight; he sees only God, who remaineth, who filleth all,
who alone changeth not, and passeth not away. For-
merly he used to complain,with a tone of irony and im-
piety, that it is very diflicult to feel any fervent emotions
for a God whom we see not, and not to love beings
whom we perceive, and who interest all our senses.
Ah ! in this last moment, he shall see God alone ; the
Invisible will now be visible to him ; his senses, already
extinguished, will reject all sensual objects; all shall
vanish around him ; and God will take the place of
those delusions which had misled and deceived him
tlu'ough life.
8rdly, Thus, for this unfortunate wretch, every thing
is changed ; and this c!iange, together with the unexpect-
edness of the approach of death, and the idea of separa-
tion, occasions the last bitterness of the spectacle of
deatli.
The change in his credit arul authority,— From the
â96 .EBMOy X.
moment that nothing farther is to be expected from hife
living, the world ceases to reckon upon him ; his pre-
tended friends withdraw ; his dependents already seek,
elsewhere, other protectors, and other masters ; even his
slaves are employed in securing to themselves, after his
death, an establishment which may suit them ; and
scarcely does a sufficient number remain around him to
catch his last sighs. All abandon him ; every one with-
draws himself ; he no longer sees around him that eager
crowd of worshippers ; their attentions are perhaps alrea-
dy lavished upon his successor ; whilst he, says Job, a-
lone in the bed of anguish, is no longer surrounded but
by the horrors of deatii, already enters into that fright-
ful solitude which the grave prepares for him, and makes
bitter reflections on the inconstancy of the world, and
the little dependence to be placed on men.
The change in the public esteem, by which he had
been so flattered, and so intoxicated. — Alas ! that world,
by which he had been so much celebrated, has already
forgotten him. The change which his death shall ne-
cessarily occasion in the scene, may perhaps engage, for
a few days, the public attention ; but this short interval
over, and he shall be plunged in oblivion ; scarcely will
it be remembered that he has existed ; every tongue will
now be employed in celebrating the abilities and exalt-
ing the character of his successor, upon the wrecks of
the memory and reputation of the deceased. He alrea-
dy perceives this neglect ; he finds that he lias only to
die, and the blank will speedily be filled up ; that no ves-
tige of him shall even remain in the world ; and that the
upright alone, who had seen him surrounded with all his
pomp, will say to themselves, Where is he now ? Whem
now are those flatteries which his greatness attracted ?
THE DEATH OF THE SIj\WER, &c, S97
See to what the world leads, and what is to be the
portion of those who serve it !
The change in his body. That flesh, which he had
so much llattered and idolized ; that vain beauty, which
had attracted so many glaaces, and corrupted so many
hearts, is already become a spectacle of horror, offen-
sive to the sight, a corpse which cannot be approached
without dread. That unfortunate being who had ex-
cited so many illicit passions, alas Î his friends, his re
lations, even his slaves avoid him, conceal themselves,
dare not approach him but with precaution, and no Ion
ger bestow upon him but the common oflices of decency
to which they are compelled. He himself shrinks with
horror, and shudders at himself. ^' I," exclaims he to
himself, ^^ who formerly attracted every look ; I call my
^* servants, and they give me no answer : My breath is
^^ corrupt ; my days are extinct ; the grave is ready for
" me. ^^ — Job xix. 17.
Lastly, the change in every thing wliich surrounds
him. — His eyes seek some resting-place, some object of
comfort, and they find every where only the dreary im-
ages of death. Yet still, the remembrance of the past,
and the view of the present, would be little to the expi-
ring sinner : Could he confine himself to these, he would
not be so completely miserable; but the thoughts of a
futurity convulse him with horror and despair. That
futurity, that region of darkness, whicli he now ap-
roaches alone, accompanied only by his conscience ; that
futurity ; that unknown land, from which no mortal has
ever returned ; where he know s not whom he shall find,
nor what awaits him; that futurity; that fathomless abyss,
in which his mind is lost and bewildered, and into which
he must now plunge, ignorant of his destiny ; that futu
Vol. I, 80
r'lty, that tomb^ that abode of horror, where be mMs
now take his place amongst the ashes and the corpses oï
his ancestors ; that fiitiinty, that incomprehensible eter-
nity, the slightest glance of which lie cannot support ;
that futurity, in fine, that drer.dful period of judgment
in which, before tjie wrath of God, he must now appear,
and render account of a life, of which every moment al-
most, has been occupied by crimes. Alas! while he
only looked forward to this terrible futurity as at a dis-
tance, he made a frightful boast of not dreading it; he
continually asked, with atone of blasphemy and derision,
Who is returned from it? He ridiculed the apprehen-
siou* of the vulgar, and piqued himself upon his un-
daunted courage. But from the moment that the hand
of God is upon him ; from the moment that death ap-
proaciies near, that the gates of eternity open to receive
him, and that he verges upon that terrible futurity, a
gainst which he seemed so fortified— Ah ! he then be-
comes either weak, trembling, dissolved in tears, rai-
sing up suppliant hands to heaven ; or gloomy, silent,
agitated, revolving within himself the most dreadful
thoughts, and no longer expecting more consolation or
mercy, from his weak tears and lamentations, than from
his frenzy and despair.
Yes, my brethren, this unfortunate wretch, whose con-
science had always slept during his excesses ; w ho had
ahvays flattered himself, that to appease the anger of
God, one good moment, one sentiment of compunction
before death alone was necessary, despairs then of his
clemency. In vain is he told of his eternal mercies ;
he feels to what a degree he is unworthy of them : In
vain does the minister of the church endeavour to soothe
liis terrors, by opening to him the bosom of the divine
mercy; these promises affect him little, because ho
■rniC DEATH GF THE ^LWXER, &c. 299
knows ivell that the charity of the churchy which never
despairs of salvation for its children, cannot, however,
alter the awful judgments of the justice of God. In vain
is he promised forgiveness of his crimes ; a secret and
terrihle voice tells him from the bottom of liis heart, that
there is no salvation for the impious, and that he can
have no dependence upon promises which are extorted
by his misfortunes, rather than warranted hy the truth.
In vain is he exhorted to apply to those last sources of
relief which the church oiTers to the dying; he regards
them as desperate remedies, which are hazarded when
hope is over^ and bestowed more for the consolation of
the living, than from any prospect of utility to those who
are departing. The servants of Jesus Christ are called
in to support him in this last moment, whilst all he is
enabled to do, is secretly to envy their lot, and to de[)lore
the misery of his own ; his friends and relations are as=
semhled around his bed, to receive his last sighs, and he
turns away from them liis eyes, because he finds still
among them the remembrance of his crimes. In the
mean time, death, draws nigh : Tlie minister endeavours
to support, by prayer, that spark of life which still re-
mains : ^^ Depart, Christian soul,'^ he exclaims, not,
^•Prince, grandee of the world, depart.'^ During his
life, the public monuments were hardly sufficient for the
number and loftiness of ids titles : In this last moment.
they give him that title alone which he had received in
baptism 5 the only one to which he had paid no atten-
tion, and the only one which can remain to him for ev-
er-—Depart, Christian soul. Alas ! he had lived as if
the body had formed his only being and treasure ; he
had even tried to persuade himself, that his soul was
nothing; that man is only a composition of flesh and
300 :^E ItM UjYX
blood, and tliat every thing perishes with us : He iç
now informed, that it is his body, which is nothin2; but
a morsel of clay, on the point of crumbling into pieces :
and that liis only immortal heing, is that soul, that im-
age of the divinity, that intelligence, alone capable of
knowing and loving its Creator, which now prepares to
quit its earthly mansion, and appear before His awful
tribunal. — Depart, Christian ^oul. You had looked up-
on the earth as your country ; and it was only a place
of pilgrimage, from which you must depart : The Church
thought to have announced glad tidings to you, the ex-
piration of your period of exile, in announcing the disso-
lution of your earthly frame : Alas ! it only brings you
melancholy and frightful news, and opens the commence-
ment of your miseries and anguish.
Depart, then. Christian soul; marked with the seal of
salvation, which you have eflaced ; redeemed by the
blood of Jesus Christ, which you have trampled under
foot ; puriiîed by the grace of regeneration, which you
have a thousand times stained ; illuminated by the lights
of the faith which you have always rejected ; loaded
with the tender mercies of Heaven, which you have al-
ways unworthily profaned. — Depart, Christian soul. Go,
and carry before Jesus Christ that august title, w hich
should have been the brilliant mark of your salvation,
but which now becomes the greatest of your crimes.
It is then, that the expiring sinner, no longer finding
in the remembrance of the past but regrets w hich over-
whelm him ; in the present, only images which afflict
him ; in the tl.oughts of futurity, only horrors which ap-
pall him ; no longer knowing to whom he can have re-
course ; neither to created beings, who now leave him 5
nor to the world, which vanishes from his sight 5 nor to
THE DEATH OF THE SIJ^J^'EJi, &c. 301
men, who cannot save him from death ; nor to the just
God, whom he looks upon as a declared enemy, and
from whom he has no indulgence to expect ; feels a
thousand horrors occupy his thoughts ; he torments and
agitates himself, in order to fly from the death which
seizes him, or at least to fly from himself : From his ex-
piring eyes issues a certain dark and gloomy expres-
sion, which exhibits the fury of his soul; in his anguish,
he utters words which are rendered uuinteiligible by his
sobs, and to which the by-stauders know not whether re-
pentance or despair gives birth. He is seized with con-
vulsions, which they are ignorant whether to ascribe to
the actual dissolution of his body, or to the soul which
feels the approach of its Judge : He sighs deeply ; and
they know not whether the remembrance of his past
crimes, or despair at quitting life, forces from him such
groans of anguish. At last, in the midst of these melan
choly exertions, his eyes fix, his features change, his
countenance becomes disfigured, his livid lips convul
sively separate ; his whole frame quivers ; and, by this
last effort, his unfortunate soul tears itself reluctantly
from that body of clay, falls into the hands of its God.
and finds itself alone at the foot of the awful tribunal.
My brethren, in this manner do those expire who ^or
get their Creator during life. Thus shall you your-
selves die, if your crimes accompany you to that last
moment. Every thing will change in your eyes, and
you shall not change yourselves : You shall die, and
you shall die in sin, as you have lived ; and your death
will be similar to your life. Prevent this misery ; live
the life of the righteous ; and your death, similar to
theirs, will be accompanied with joy, peace, and conso
302 SEIiJIO.Y X.
lation. This is what I hope to explaiu in the second
part of this discourse.
Part II. — I knoAV, that even to the most upright
souls, there is always something terrible in death. The
judgments of God, whose impenetrable secrets they
dread ; the darkness of their own conscience, in which
they continually imagine hidden stains, known to the
Almighty alone : the liveliness of their faith, and of their
love, which in their own sight magnities their smallest
faults ; in a word, the dissolution itself of their earthly
frame, and the natural horroiMve feel for the î^rave: All
these occasion death to be attended by a natural sensa-
tion of dread and repugnance, insomuch that, as St. Paul
says, the most upright themselves, wlio anxiously long
to be cloathed with that immortality promised to them,
would yet willingly attain it, without being divested of
the mortality which encompasses them.
It is not less true, however, that in them grace rise^
superior to that fear of death, which is inherent in our
nature ; and that in the moment of dissolution, whethei-
they recall the past, consider the present, or look for-
ward to the future : they nnd, in casting their eyes back
on the past, that they have attained the end of their trou
bles; in the consideration of the present, a novelty, which
fills them with a holy joy ; in the thought of the future,
the assurance of an eternity, which fills them with rap
ture ; in so much, that the same situations, which are the
occasion of despair to the dying sinner, become then an
abundant source of consolation to the faithful soul.
I say, whether they recall the past: And here, my
brethren, figure to yourselves a righteous man on the
bed of death, who has long, by the practice of Christian
THE DEATH OF THE ShrXEH, &c. 30S
works, prepared himself for this last moment, has amas=
sed a treasure of righteousness, that he may not appear
empty handed in the presence of his Judge, and ha^
lived in faith, that he may die in peace, and in all the
consolations of hope : Figure to yourselves this person,
reaching at last that iinal hour, of which he had never
lost sight, and with which he had always connected all
the trouhles, all the wants, all the self-denials, all the
events of his mortal life. 1 say, that nothing is more
soothing to him, than the remembrance of the past ; of
his sufferings, of his mortifications, of all the trials
w hich he has undergone.
Yes, my brethren, it appears frightful to you at pre=
sent to suffer for God. The smallest exertions required
by religion, seem to overpower you ; you consider those
unhappy who bear the yoke of Jesus Christ, and \vho, to
please him, renounce the world, and all its charms. But
on the bed of death, the most soothing reflection to the
faithful christian, is the remembrance of w hat he has
suffered for his God. He then comprehends all the
merit of penitence, and how absurd men are, to dispute
with God a moment of constraint, w hich will be entitled
to the recompence of a felicity without end, and without
measure. For he is then consoled by the thought, that
iie has sacrificed only the gratifications of a moment, of
which there would now only remain to him the confu»
sion and the shame ; that whatever he might have suf=
fered for the world, would in this moment be lost to him ;
that on the contrary, the smallest suffering for God, a
tear, a mortification, a vain pleasure sacrificed, an im-
proper desire repressed, will never be forgotten, but
shall last as long as God himself. He is consoled by
the thought, that of all human luxuries and enjoyments,
301 !SEHMOJ\i' X.
there remains alas ! on the bed of death, no more to the
sinner who has always indulged in them, than to the
righteous man who has always abstained from them 5
that they are equally past to them both ; but that the one
shall bear eternally the guilt of having delivered himself
up to them, and the other the glory of having known how
to vanquish them.
This is what the review of the past offers to a faithful
soul, on the bed of death. Sufferings, afflictions, which
have endured but a little while, and which are now to be
eternally rewarded : The time of dangers and tempta»
tions past ; the attacks made by the world upon his
faith at last terminated ; the trials in which his innocence
had run so many risks, at last disappeared ; the temp-
tations by which his virtue had so nearly been ship»
wrecked, at last for ever removed ; the continual com-
bats which he had to sustain against his passions, at last
ended ; and every obstacle which flesh and blood had
placed in the way of his piety, for ever annihilated.
How sweet it is, when safely arrived in port, to recall
the remembrance of past dangers and tempests! When
victorious in the race, how pleasing to retrace, in imagi-
nation, our exertions, and to review those parts of the
course most distinguished by the toils, the obstacles, and
the difficulties which have rendered them celebrated.
The righteous man, appears then, to me, like another
Moses, expiring on the holy mountain, where the Lord
had marked out to him his grave: " Get thee up into
^^ the mountain Abarim, and die, §'c." Deut. xxxii. 49.
who, before he expired, looking down from that sacred
place, and casting his eyes over the extent of country,
the nations and kingdoms he had traversed, and now
leaves behind him, reviews in imagination^ the number-
THE DEATH OF THE SIJ^J^ER, &€. 305
less dangers he had escaped : his battles with so many
conquered nations ; the fatigues of the desart ; the snares
of Midian ; the murmurs and calumnies of his brethren ;
the rocks split in pieces ; the dangers of Egypt avoided ;
the waters of the Red Sea passed through ; hunger,
thirst, and weariness struggled against ; and drawing at
last to the happy term of so many labours, and viewing
from afar that country promised to his fathers, he sings
a song of thanksgiving and praise to God ; dies trans-
ported with joy, both at the remembrance of so many
dangers avoided, and at the prospect of that place of
rest, which the Lord shows him from afar, and looks
upon the holy mountain, where he is to expire, as
the reward of his toils, and the happy term of his
coulee.
Not that the remembrance of the past, in recalling to
the dying righteous the trials and dangers of his past
life, does not also remind him of his infidelities and
wanderings ; however, these are errors expiated by the
sighs of repentance ; errors which have fortunately been
followed by a renewal of fervour and fidelity ; errors
which recall the mercies of God to his soul, w ho hath
made his crimes the means of his repentance, his pas-
sions of his conversion, and his errors of his salvation.
The grief which he feels for his faults, in this iast mo-
ment, becomes only a sorrow" of consolation and tender-
ness ; the tears which this remembrance still draws from
him, are but the tears of joy and gratitude. The for-
mer mercies of God to his soul, fill him with confidence,
and inspire him with a just hope of the hereafter ; the
past conduct of God with regard to him, comforts his
heart, and seems to answ er for wlmt he shall experience
in future. Hr no longer, as in the days of his penitence
Vol. J. 3r
306 sermojv X
an^ luoiiruiiig? iîgures to liimseli* the Almighty imder
the idea of a terrible and severe judge, whom he had
insulted, and whom it was necessary to appease ; but
as the Father of mercies, and God of all consolation,
who prepares to receive him into his bosom, and there
shelter him from all his afflictions.
" Awake, righteous soul,'' says then to him in se-
cret, his Lord and his God, " Thou who hast drunken
" the dregs of tlie cup of trembling, thou shalt no more
'' drink it again ; the days of thy tribulation are past.
^' Shake thyself from the dust, arise, and sit down ;
" loose thyself from the bands of thy neck, O captive
^^ daughter of Zion ! Put on thy strength, put on thy
^ beautiful garments:. Enter into the everlasting joy of
^*' thy Lord, where thou shalt obtain gladness and
^' peace, and sorrow and mourning shall flee away.'"
^' Isaiah ii. 17- &c.
In the remembrance of the past, therefore, we behold
the first consolation of the upright soul on the bed of
death : Every thing which takes place around him ;
the world which flies from him ; all created beings
which disappear; all that phantom of vanity which
fades away; this change, this novelty, is still the source
of a thousand consolations to him.
We have just seen, that the despair of the dying sin-
ner, in viewing what passes around him, is occasioned
by his surprise, his separation from the world and the
change lie undergoes ; these are precisely the sources of
consolation to the faithful soul in this last moment. No-
thing surprises him ; he is separated from nothing ; in
his eyes nothing is changed.
Nothing surprises him. — The hour of the Lord sur-
prises him not ; he expected, he longed for it. The
THE DEATH OF THE SIJfJSTER, &c. 307
thought of this last moment accompanied all his actions^
entered into all his projects, regulated all his desires^
and animated his whole conduct through life. Every
hour, every moment, seemed to him the one which tlie
upright Judge had appointed for that dreadful reckon-
ing, where righteousness itself shall be judged. Tims
had he lived, incessantly preparing his soul for that last
hour. Thus he expires, tranquil and consoled, without
surprise or dread, in the peace of his Loid ; death never
approaching nearer to liira than he had always beheld
it ; and experiencing no difference between the day of
his death, and the ordinary ones of his life.
Besides, what occasions the surprise and the despair
of the sinner on the bed of death, is to see that the
world, in which he had ever placed all his confidence,
is nothing, is but a dream, which vanishes and is anni-
hilated.
But the rigliteous in this last moment, sees the world
in the same light he had always viewed it ; as a shadow
which flitteth away ; as a vapour which deceives at a dis-
tance, but, when approached, has neither reality nor
substance. He feels, then, the liolyjoy of having esti-
mated the world according to its merit ; of having judg-
ed with propriety ; of never being attached to what
must one day slip from him in a moment ; and of having
placed his confidence in God alone, who remainetli for
ever, etern?Jly to i^eward those who trust in him.
How sweet, then, to the righteous, to say to himself,
I have made the happiest choice ; how fortunate for me,
that I attachedi myself only to God, since He alone will
endure to me for ever ! My choice was regarded as a
folly ; the world laughed it to scorn, and found me
whimsical and singular, in not conforming myself to its
308 s Eli MO JV X.
ways; but now this last moment answers all. It is deatb
that decides on which side are the wise or the foolish^
and which of the two has judged aright^ the worldly or
the faithful.
Thus does the upright man, on the bed of death, con-
sider the world and all its glory. When the ministers
of the church come to converse with him of God^ and
the nothingness of all humau things, these holy truths,
so new to the sinner in that last moment, are sujjjects fa-
miliar to him, objects of which he had never lost sight ;
These consolatory truths are then his sweetest occupa-
tion ; he meditates upon them, he enjoys them, he draws
them from the bottom of liis heart, where they had al-
ways been cherished, to place them full in his view, and
he contemplates them with joy. The minister of Jesus
CImst speaks no new or foreign language to him ; it is
the language of his heart ; they arc the sentiments of his
whole life. Nothing soothes him so much then, as to
hear that God spoken of, whom he had always loved ;
those eternal riches, which he had always coveted ; that
happiness in another life, for which he had always sigh-
ed ; and the nothingness of that world, which he had
always despised. All other subjects of conversation he-
become insipid to him ; he can listen only to the mercies
of the God of his fathers, and he regrets the moments as
lost, which must necessarily be devoted to the regulation
of an earthly mansion, and disposing of the succession
of his ancestors. Great God ! what light ! what peace !
what delicious transports ! what holy emotions of love,
of joy, of confidence, of thanksgiving, then fill the soul
of this righteous man ! His faith is renewed ; his love
is invigorated ; his fervour is excited ; his compunction
is awakened. The nearer tlie dissolution of the eartlily
THE DEATH OF TnH SLYJVEB, &c, 309
man approaches, the more is the new man completed
and perfected ! The more his mansion of clay crumbles,
the more is his soul purified and exalted : In proportion
as the body falls into ruin, the spirit is diseuga2;ed and
renewed ; like a pure and brilliant flame, w liich ascends
and shines forth with additional splendour, in propor-
tion as it frees itself from the remains of matter which
held it down, and as the substance to w^hich it was at-
tached is consumed and dissipated.
Alas ! All discourses upon God fatigue the sinner on
the bed of death : They irritate his evils ; his head is
agitated by them, and his rest is disturbed : It becomes
necessary to manage his weakness, by venturing only a
few words at proper periods ; to do it with precaution^
lest their length should incommode him ; to chuse tlie
proper moments for speaking to him of the God who is
ready to judge him, and whom he has never known.
Holy artifices of charity are required, nay, deception is
even necessary sometimes, to make him bestow a thought
upon his salvation. Even the ministers of the church
but rarely approach him, because they well know that
their presence is only an intrusion. They are excluded
as disagreeable and melancholy prophets ; his friends
around him carefully turn the conversation from salva-
tion, as conveying the news of death, and as a dismal
subject which wearies him ; they endeavour to enliven
his spirits, by speaking of the business and vanities of
the age, which had engrossed him during life. Great
God ! and Thou permittest this unfortunate wretch to
bear, even to death, his dislike to truth ; that w^orldlj
images shall occupy him even in this last moment ; and
that they shall dread to speak to him of his God, whom
he has always dreaded to cnvo, and to know*
MO 6'ÈIIMOjY X".
But let us not loose sight of the righteous : Not ohlf
does he see nothing on the bed of death which surprises
him^ but he is likewise separated from nothing which he
laments or regrets. For what can death separate him
from, to occasion either regret or tears? From the
world ? Alas ! from a world, in which he had always
lived as an exile ; in which he had found only shameful
excesses, which grieved his faith ; dangers at which his
innocence trembled ; attentions, which were trouble-
some to him ; ties, which, in spite of himself, still divi-
ded him between heaven and the earth : We feel little
regret for the loss of what we have never loved. From
iis riches and wealth ? Alas ! his treasure was in hee-
"vea : His riches had been tJie riches of the poor : He
looses them not ; he is only about to regain them for ev-
er, in the bosom of God. From his titles and dignities ?
Alas ! it is a yoke from which he is delivered : The on-
ly title dear to him, was the one he had received in bap-
tism, which he now bears to the presence of God, and
which constitutes his claim to the eternal promises.
From his relations and friends? Alas ! he knows that
he only precedes them by a moment ; that death cannot
separate those whom piety had joined upon the earth ;
and that, soon united together in the bosom of God, they
shall again form the same church, and the same people^
and shall enjoy the delights of an immortal society.
From his children? He leaves to them the Lord as a
father; his example and his instructions as an inheri-
tance; his good wishes and his blessing as a final con^
Isolation : And, like David, he expires in entreating for
his son Solomon, not temporal prosperities, but a perfect
hearty love of the law, and the fear of the God of his
fathers. From his bodv ? Alas ! from that body which
TffE DEATH OF THE SIJSJSTEIt, &c. 31 1
iic had always chastised and crucified ; which he con^
sidered as his enemy ; which kept him still depen=
dent upon the senses and the flesh ; which overwhelmed
him under the weight of so many humiliating wants :
from that house of clay, which confined him prisoner ;
which prolonged the days of his banishment and his sla-
very, and retarded his union with Jesus Christ : Ah !
like St. Paul, he earnestly wishes its dissolution : It is
an irksome cloathing, from which he is delivered ; it is
a wall of separation from his God, wliich is destroyed ;
and which now leaves him free, and qualified to take
his flight towards the eternal mountains. Thus death
separates him from nothing, because faith had already
separated him from all.
I might add, that the changes which take place on
tlie bed of death, so full of despair to the sinner, change
nothing in the faithful soul. His reason, it is true, de-
cays ; but for a long time past, he had subjected it to the
yoke of faith, and extinguished its vain lights before the
light of God, and the profundity of his mysteries. His
expiring eyes become darkened, and are closed upon all
visible objects ; but long ago they had been fixed on the
invisible alone. His tongue is immoveable ; but he had
long before planted the guard of circumspection on it,
and meditated in silence the mercies of the God of his
fathers. All his senses are blunted, and lose their natu
ral use ; but for a long time past, he had himself inter-
dicted their influence. He had eyes, and saw not; ears,
and heard not ; taste, and relished only the things oi'
heaven. Nothing is changed, therefore, to this soul, on
the bed of death. His body falls in pieces ; all creates
beings vanish from his eyes ; light retires ; all nature re-
turns to nothing ; and, in the midst of all these changes,
he alone cbangeth not ; he alone is always the sams»
How sublime, my brethren, does failli render the
death of the righteous ! How worthy of God, of angels,
and of men, is the sight of the upright man in that last
moment ! It is then that the faithful heart appears mas-
ter of the world, and of all created beings ; it is then
that, participating already in the greatness and the im»
mutability of the God to whom he is on the eve of being
united, he is elevated above all ; in the world, without
any connection with it : in a mortal body, without be-
ing chained to it ; in the midst of his relations and
friends, without seeing or knowing them ; in the midst
of the embarrassments and changes which Ids death o-
pens to his sight, without the smallest interruption to
his tranquility : He is already fixed in the bosom of God,
while all things are destroyed. Once more, my breth-
ren, how noble is it to have lived in the observance of
the law of the Lord, and to die in his fear ! With what
dignity does not faith then display itself in the righte-
ous ! Li is the moment of his glory and triumph ; it is
the centre at which the whole lustre of his life and of
his virtues unite.
How beautiful to see the righteous man, then, moving
with a tranquil and majestic pace towards eternity! And
with reason did the false prophet cry out when he saw
the triumphal march of the Israelites entering into the
land of promise, " Let me die the death of the righte-
" ous, and let my end be like his. iSumb. xxiii 10.
And behold, my brethren, in the last place, what com^
pletely fills with joy and consolation the faithful soul on
the bed of death : It is the thought of futurity. The
sinner, during health, looks forward to a future state
with a tranquil eye : but in this last moment, beholding
its approach, his tranquility is changed into shudder-
THE HEATH OF THE SIJ\'A''EJi, Uc. 813
ings and terror. The upright man, on the contrary, du-
ring the days of his mortal life, durst never regard, with
a fixed eye, the depth aiid extent of God's judg-
ments : He wrought out his salvation with fear and
trembling; he shuddered at the very thought of that
dreadful futurity, where even the just, if judged without
mercy, shall hardly be saved : But, on the bed of death,
the God of peace, who displays himself to him, calms
his agitations; his fears immediately cease, and are
changed into a soothing hope. He already pierces, with
expiring eyes, through that cloud of mortality which still
surrounds him, and sees the throne of glory, and the
Son of man at his Father's right hand, ready to receive
him ; that immortal country, for which lie had longed so
much, and upon which Ms mind had always dwelt ;
that holy Zion, which the God of his fathers fiUeth with
his glory and his presence ; where he fiUeth the elect
with a torrejit of delights, and maketh them forever
enjoy the incomprehensible riches which he hath prepa-
red for those who love him ; that city of the people of
God, the residence of the saints, the habitation of the
just, and of the prophets, where he shall again find his
brethren, with wiiom charity had united him on the
earth, and with whom he shall bless eternally the tender
mercies of the Lord, and join with them in hallelujahs
to his praise.
Then, when the ministers of the church shall also
come to announce to this soul, that the hour is arrived,
and that eternity approaches; they shall tell him, in the
name of the church, which sends them, " Depart, Chris»
'* tian soul ; quit at last that earth, where you have so
^' long been a stranger and a captive : The time of trial
^' and tribulation is over ; Behold; at last, the upright
Vol. L 38
^14 .SEUJMOjY ^
-^'' Judge, who comes to strike off the chaius of yoilt
^^ mortality : Return to the bosom of God, from whence
^' you came : Quit now a world, which was unworthy
^- of you : The almighty hath at last been touched with
^^ your tears ; He at last openeth to you the gate of eter-
^^ nity, the gate of the upright: Depart, faithful soul;
^' go, and unite yourself to the heavenly church, which
^' expects you : Remember only your brethren, whom
"^ you leave upon the earth, still exposed to temptations
'^ and to storms : Feel for the melancholy state of the
^' church here below, which has given you birth in Je-
" sus Christ, and which envies your departure : En-
^' treat the end of her captivity, and her re-union with
*^ her spouse, from whom she is still separated. Those
^' who sleep in the Lord, perish not for ever : We on-
^' ly lose you on the earth, in order to regain you in a
^^ little time with Jesus Christ, in the kingdom of the
^^ holy : The body, which you are on the point of lea-
'' ving a prey to worms and to putrefaction, shall soon
^' follow you, immortal and glorious. Not a hair of
'' your head shall perish. There shall remain in your
'^ ashes a seed of immortality, even to the clay of reve-
^^ lation, when your parched bones shall be revived.^
^' and again appear moie resplendent than light : What
" happiness for you, to be at last relieved from all the
^' miseries which still afflict us : to be no longer expo-
^' sed, like your bi^ethren, to lose tha4; Ood, whom you
^' are about to enjoy ; to shut your eyes, at last, on all the
*^ scandals which grieve us ; on that vanity, which sedu-
^^ ces us ; on those examples, which lead us astray ; on
*^ those attachments, which engross us, and on those.
*^ troubles, which consume us ! What happiness, to quit
*^ at last a place; where eyery thing tiies, and every thing
THE DEATH OF THE SIXJVER, &c. 31 ;!
'^ sullies us, where we are a burden to ourselves, and
'' where we only exist, in order to be unhappy ; and to
" go to a residence of peace, of joy, of quiet, where our
" only occupation will be to enjoy the God whom we
« love!^'
What blessed tidings, then, of joy and immortality,
to this righteous soul ! What a blessed prospect ! With
what peace, what confidence, what thanksgivings, does
he not accept it ! He raises, like old Simeon, his dying
eyes to heaven; and beholding the approach of the Lord,
exclaims, " Break, O my God Î when Thou pleasest,
'' these remains of mortality ; these feeble ties, which
^' still keep me here : I wait, in peace and in hope, the
" effects of thine eternal promises. '^ Thus, purified by
the expiration of an holy and Christian life, fortified by
the last remedies of the church, washed in the blood of
the Lamb, supported by the hope of the promises, and
ripe for eternity ; he shuts his eyes with an holy joy on
all sublunary creatures : He goes tranquilly to sleep in
the Lord, and returns to the bosom of that God from,
whence he came.
My bretliren, any observations here would be useless.
Such is the end of those who liave lived in the fear of
the Lord : Their death is precious before God, like
their life. Such is the deplorable end of those, who
have neglected him to that last hour : The death of sin-
ners is abominable in the eyes of the Lord, equally as
their life. If you live in sin, you will die in all the
horrors, and in all the useless regrets of the sinner, and
your death shall be an eternal death. If you live in
righteousness, you will die in peace and in the confi-
dence of the just, and your death Avill be only a passage
to a blessed immortality,
Amen^
C 316
SERMON XI
ON CHARITY
K^^:
John vL 11.
And Jesus took the loaves, and, when he had given
thanlcs^ he distributed to the disciples, and the disci-
pies to them that were set down.
It was not without design that our Saviour employ-
ed his disciples, in the prodigy of multiplying the loaves ;
and that he made use of their ministry, in distributing
the miraculous food among a people pressed with hun-
ger and want. He might no doubt, have caused man-
na to pour again upon the desart, and saved his disci-
ples the trouble of sa painful a distribution.
But might He not, also, after having raised up La-
zarus from the dead, have dispensed with their assis-
tance in unloosing him? Could his Almighty voice,
which had just broken asunder the chains of death, have
found any assistance from the feeble bauds wliich the
OJ^ CHARlir. 31?
hand of man had formed ? It is because He wished to
point out to them before hand the sacred exercise of
their ministry ; the part they were afterwards to liave
in the spiritual resurrection of sinners ; and that what-
ever they should unloose upon the earth should be un-
loosed in heaven.
A^ain, when the propriety of paying tribute to Caesar
was questioned, he needed not to have employed the ex-
pedient of Peter's net, for the purpose of producing a
piece of money out of the bowels of a fish : He who,
even from stones, was able to raise up children to Abra-
ham ; might surely, with greater ease, have converted
them into a precious metal, and thereby furnished the
amount of the tribute due to Caesar. But, in the char-
acter of head of the church, he meant to teach his min-
isters to respect those in authority ; and, by rendering
honour and tribute to the powers e#tal3lished by God,
to set an example of submission to other believers.
Thus, in making use, upon this occasion, of the inter-
vention of the apostles to distribute the loaves to the
multitude,his design is, to a,ccustom all his disciples to
compassion and liberality towards the unfortunate : He
makes you the ministers of his providence, and multi-
plies the riches of the earth in your hands, for the sole
purpose of being distributed from thence among that
multitude of unfortunate fellow-creatures which sur-
rounds you.
He might, no doubt, nourish them himself, as he for-
jnerly nourished Paul and Elijah in the desert ; without
your intervention he might comfort those creatures which
bear his image; He, whose invisible hand prepares food
even for the young ravens which invoke him in their
want ; but He wishes to associate vou in the merit of
318 SERMOJ^ XL
his liberality; He wishes you to be placed betweeu
himself and the poor, like refreshing clouds, always rea-
dy to shower upon them those fructifying streams which
you have only received for their advantage.
Such is the order of his providence ; it was necessa-
ry that means of salvation should be provided for all
men ; riches would corrupt the heart, if charity were not
to expiate their abuse ; poverty would wear out virtue,
if the succours of compassion were not to soften its bit-
terness. The poor facilitate to the rich the pardon of their
pleasures ; the rich animate the poor to obtain the merit
of their sufferings.
Apply to -yourselves, then, be ye whom you may, thii&
scriptural text If you groan under the yoke of pover-^
ty, the tenderness and care of Jesus Christ towards all
the wants of a wandering and unprovided people will
console you : If born to opulence, the example of the
-disciples will now instruct you. You will see, in the
first place, the unreasonableness of the pretexts by
which the duty of charity is evaded : And in the se-
cond place, you will learn what ought to be its rules»
That is to say, in the first part of this discourse we shall
prove the propriety of this duty against all the vain ex-
cuses of avarice ; in the second, we shall instruct you in
the manner of fulfilling it against even the defects of
charity ; it is the most natural instruction with which
the history of the gospel presents us.
Part I. That the law of God enjoins upon us the
duty of charity, will scarcely admit of a doubt. The
gospel is so pointed on this duty ; the spirit and the
ground- work of religion lead us to it so naturally ; the
idea alone which we have of Providence, in the dispen-
sation of temporal things, leaves so little room on that
oj^ CHARiTsr, 319
"point for opinion or doubt ; that, though many ai'e igno-
rant of the extent of this obligation, yet there is hardly-
one who does not admit of the foundation and principle.
Who, indeed, is ignorant that the Lord, whose provi-
dence hatii regulated all things with so admirable a sys-
tem, and prepared food even for the beasts of the field,
would never have left men, created after his own im-
age, a prey to hunger and indigence, whilst liberally
showering upon a small number of happy individuals
the blessings of heaven and the fat of the earth, if He
had not intended that the abundance of the one should
supply the necessities of the other ?
Who is ignorant, that originally every thing belong»
ed in common to all men ; that simple nature knew nei-
ther property nor portions, and left each of us at first in
possession of the universe, but that, in order to put
bounds to avarice, and to avoid trouble and dissention,
the common consent of mankind ordained that the wisest^,
the most humane, and the most upright, should likewise
be the most opulent ; that besides the portion of wealth
destined to them by nature, they should also be intrusted
with that of the weakest, in order to be its depositaries,
and to defend it against usurpation and violence : con-
sequently, that they were established by nature itself a-s
the guardians of the unfortunate, and that whatever sur-
plus they had, was only the patrimony of their brethren^
confided to their care and to their equity ?
Who, lastly, is ignorant that the ties of religion havB
still more firmly cemented the first bonds of union which
nature had formed among men ; that the grace of Jesus
Christ, which brought forth the first believers, made of
them not only one heart and one soul, but also one fam-
ily, where the idea of individual property was explo-
3gO ^SËJRMOJK' XL
ded ; and that the gospel, ordaiaing us to love our breth-
ren as ourselves, no longer allows us to be ignorant of
their wants, or to be insensible to their sorrows ?
But it is with the duty of charity as with all the other
duties of the law ; in general, the obligation is not, theo-
retically denied ; wiieu an opportunity however for its
fulfilment arrives, a pretext is never wanting, either to
dispense with it entirely, or at least to perform but a
part of the duty. Now, it would appear that the spi-
rit of God hath meant to exhibit to us all these pre-
texts, in the answers which the disciples made to Jesus
Christ in order to excuse themselves from assisting the
famished multitude which had followed him to the de-
sert.
In the first place, they remind him, that they had
scarcely wherewithal to supply their own wants, and that
only five loaves of barley, and two fishes remained :
Such is the first pretext, made use of by the covetous,
in opposition to the duty of compassion. Scarcely have
they sufficient for themselves ; they have a name and a
rank to support in the world, children to establish, cred-
itors to satisfy, public charges to support, a thousand
expenses of pure civility, to which attention must be
paid ; now, what is an income which is not inexhausti-
ble, to such endless demands ? In this manner does this
brilliant and luxurious world continually speak.
Now my brethren, I know, that the limits of what is
called a sufficiency, are not the same for all stations ;
that they extend in proportion to rank and birth ; that
one star, to use the language of the apostle, must differ
in lustre from another ; that, even from the apostolic
ages, men were seen in the assemblies of believers, cloth-
ed in robes of distinction, with rings of gold, wliile oth-
OJV CHARITY. 3âl
ers, of a more obscure station, were forced to content
themselves with the apparel necessary to cover their
nakedness ; that, consequently, religion doth not con-
found stations ; and that, if it forbid those who dwell in
the palaces of kings from effeminacy of maiiiiers, and
indecent luxuriousness in their dress, it doth not at the
same time prescribe to them the poverty, and the simpli-
city of those wlio dwell in cottages, or of tliose who
form the lower ranks of the people : Of this 1 am not
ignorant.
But, my brethren, it is an incontestible truth, that,
whatever surplus you may have, belongs not to you ;
that it is the portion of the poor, and, that you are enti-
tled to consider as your own only that proportion of
your revenues which is necessary to support the station
in wliich Providence hath placed you. I ask, then, is
it the gospel, or avarice, which must determine that suf-
iiciency ? Would you dare to pretend, that all those
vanities of which custom has now made a law, are to
be held, in the sight of God, as expenses inseparable
from your condition ? That every thing which ilatters,
and is agreeable to you, which nourishes your pride,
gratifies your caprices, and corrupts your heart, is for
that reason necessary to you ? That all you sacrifice to
the fortune of a child, in order to raise Irim above his an-
cestors ; all you risk in gaming ; the luxury, which ei-
ther suits not your birth, or is an abuse of it; have incon-
testible claims on your revenues, which are to be prefer-
red to those of charity ? Lastly, Would you dare to pre-
tend, that, because your liitlier, perhaps obscure, and of
the lowest rank, may have left you all his w ealth, and
perhaps his crimes; you are entitled to forget your fami^
ly, and the house of your father^ in order to mingle with
Vol. I. m
ggâ SERMÔ.Y XL
*.lie highest laiiks^ and to support the same eclat, because
you are enabled to support the same expense ?
If tliis be the case, my brethren, if you consider that
only as a surplus, which may escape fiom your plea-
sures, from your extravagancies, and from your caprices;
you have only to be voluptuous, capricious, dissolute,
and prodigal, in order to be \vhony absolved from the
duty of charity. The more passions you may have to
satisfy, the more will your obligation to charity dimin-
ish ; and your excesses, which the Lord hath command-
ed you to expiate by acts of compassion, will themselves
become a privilege b^' which you may be absolved from
them. There must necessarily, therefore, be some rule
observed and some limits appointed, different from those
of avarice. This my brethren, is the rule of faith.
Whatever tends only to support a sensual life, to flatter
the passions, to countenance the vain pomp and abuses
of the world, is superfluous to a Christian, and ought to
be retrenched and set apart; they are the funds and the
heritage of the poor ; you are only their depositaries,
and you cannot €ncix)ach upon them without usurpation
and injustice. The gospel reduces to very little the
sufficiency of a Christian, however exalted in the world;
religion retrenches much from the expenses ; and did we
all live according to the rules of faith, our wants, wiiich
would no longer be multiplied by our passions, would
be still fewer : the greater part of our wealth would be
found entirely useless ; and, as in the first age of tlie
faith, the church would see no poverty among hei- mem-
bers. Our expenses continually increase, because our
passions are every day multiplied; what was opulence
to our fathers, is considered by us as a state of poverty ;
and our great riches can no longer suffice, because no-
thing can satisfy those who refuse themselves nothing.
0J\' CHARITT. ââS
In order to give this truth all the examination which
the subject in question demands, I ask you, '^dhj^ Does
the elevation or abundance in which you are born ab=-
solve you from simplicity, frugality, modesty, and holy
restraint ? By being born great, you are not the less
Christians. In vain, like the Israelites in tlie desert,
have you amassed more manna than your brethren ; you
cannot preserve for your use more than the measure pre-
scribed by the law. Were it not so, our Haviour would
not have forbidden pomp, luxury, and worldly pleas-
ures, but to the poor and unfortunate ; those to whon>
the misery of their condition renders the proliibition
needless.
Now, if this great truth be admitted ; if, according to
the rule of faith, it be not permitted you to employ you?
riches in the gratification of your appetites ; if tlie rich
be obliged like the poor to bear the cross, continually to
deny themselves pleasures, and to look for no consola-
tion in this world ; what can the design of Providence
have been, in pouring upon you all the riches of the
eartli ? and, what advantage could accnie to you, from
them ? Could it be in order to administer to vour irree;-
ular desires ? But you are no longer bound to the flesh>
to live according to the flesh. Couid it be iu order to
support the pride of rank and birth? But whatever you
give to vanity, you cut off from charity. Could it be
for the purpose of hoarding up for your posterity ? But
your treasure should be only in heaven. Coukl it be in
order that you might pass your life more agreeably ?
But if you weep not, if you suffer not, if you combat not,
you are lost. Could it be in order to attach you more
strongly to the world ? But the Christian is not of this
world : he is a citizen of the world to come. Coidd it
3S4 SERMON XL
be for the purpose of aggrandizing your possessions and
your inheritances ? But yen would aggrandize only the
place of your exile ; and the gain of the whole world
would be useless, if you thereby lost your soul. Could
it be that your table might be loaded with the most ex-
quisite dishes ? But you well know, that the gospel for-
bids a life of sensuality and voluptuousness, equally to
the rich as to the indigent. Review all the advantages,
which, according to the world, you can reap from your
prosperity, and you will find almost the whole of them
forbidden by the law of God.
It has not, therefore, been His design, that they should
"be applied solely to your own purposes, when He mul-
tiplied in your hands the riches of the earth. It is not
for yourself that you are born to grandeur : it is not for
yourself, as Mordecai formerly said to the pious Esther,
that the Lord hath exalted you to this point of prosper-
ity and grandeur ; it is for the sake of his afflicted peo-
ple ; it is to be the protector of t]ie unfortunate. If you
fulfil not the intentions of God, w ith regard to you, con-
tinued that w ise Israelite, He will employ some other,
who shall more faithfully serve him ; He will transfer
to them that crown which was intended for you ; He
will elsewhere provide for the enlargement and deliver-
ance of his afflicted people ; for He will not permit them
to perish ; but thou, and thy father's house shall perish.
In the designs of the Almiglity, therefore, you are but
the ministers of his providence towards those who suf-
fer ; your great riches are only sacred deposits, which
his goodness hath entrusted to your care, for security
against usurpation and violence, and in order to be more
safely preserved for the widow and the orphan : your
abundance, in the system of his wisdom, is destined ou-
OJV CHARITY. Sâ0
iy to supply their necessities ; your authority, only to
protect them ; your dignities, only to avenge their inter-
ests ; your rank, only to console them by your good of-
fices : whatsoever you possess, you hold it only for
them ; your elevation would no longer be the work of
God, and He would have cursed you, in bestowing on
you all the riches of the earth, had He given them to
you for any other use.
Allege, then, no longer those wants which the law
of God condemns, as an excuse for your hardness of heart
towards your brethren ; rather justify his providence to-
wards all who suffer; let them see by your acqui-
escence in his system, that there is a God for them as
well as for you ; and make them bless the adorable de-
signs of his wisdom, in the dispensation of earthly
things, which hath supplied them, through your abun-
dance, with such resources of consolation.
But, besides, what effect can the small contributions
required from you produce upon those wants, the ur-
gency of which you so often plead ? The Lord exacteth
not from you any part of your possessions or heritages,
though they belong wholly to him, and he hath a right
to deprive you of them. He leaveth you tranquil pos-
sessors, of those lands and palaces, which distinguish
you among the people, and with which the piety of your
ancestors formerly enriched our temples : He doth not
command you, like the young man in the gospel, to re-
nounce all, to destribute your whole wealth among the
poor, and to follow him ; He maketh it not a law to
you, as formerly to the first believers, to bring all your
riches to the feet of your pastors : He doth not strike
you with an anathema, as He did formerly Ananias and
Sapphira, for daring to retain only a portion of (hat
3â6 i:iEUMOX XL
wealth which they had received from their ancestors ;
you, who perhaps owe the aggrandizement of your for-
tunes to public calamities, or disreputable gains : He
consenteth, as the prophet says, that you should call the
land by your name ; and that you transmit to your pos-^
terity those possessions which you have inherited from
your ancestors : He wisheth you to lay apart only a
portion for the unfortunate^ whom he leaveth in indi-
gence: He wisheth, that, while in the luxury and splen-
dour of your apparel, you bear sufficient for the nourish-
ment of a whole nation of unfortunate fellow-creatures^
you should have wherewithal to cover the nakedness of
his servants, who languish in poverty, and know not
where to repose their head : He wisheth you, from
those tables of voluptuousness, where your exorbitant
riches seem scarcely sufficient to supply your sensuality,
and the profusion of an extravagant eflFeminacy, to drop
at least, some crumbs for the relief of those like Laza-
Tus, pressed with hunger and want : He wisheth, that,
while paintings of the most absurd and the most bound-
less price are seen to cover the walls of your palaces,
your revenues may suffice to honour the living images
of your God : He wisheth, in a word, that, while no-
thing is spared for the gratification of an inordinate pas-
sion for gaming, and every thing is on the verge of be-
ing for ever swollowed up in that gulph, you should not
descend to calculate your expenses, to measure your
ability, to alledge the mediocrity of your fortune, and the
embarrassment of your affairs, when you are called on to
relieve an afflicted Christian. He wisheth it ; and hath He
not reason to wish it? What ! You shall be rich for evil,
and poor for good ! Your revenues shall he amply suffi-
cient to effect your destruction, and they shall not suffice
OJ\/ CHARITYy 3ây
to save your soul, and to purchase heaven ? And, be-
cause you carry self-h)ve to the extreme, every species
of barbarity shoukl be permitted you towards your un-
fortunate brethren?
But whence comes it, that, in this single point, you
wish to lower the opinion entertained by tlie world of
your riches ? tki every other occasion you appear desi-
rous to be thought wealthy ; you give yourselves out as
such ; you even frequently conceal, under appearances
of the greatest splendour, affairs already ruined, merely
to support the vain reputation of opulence. This vanity,
then, does not abandon you but when you are put in re-
membrance of the duty of compassion; not satisfied^
then, with confessing the mediocrity of your fortune, you
exaggerate it, and avarice triumphs in your heart, not
only over truth, but even over vanity. Ah ! thus did
the Lord formerly reproacli the angel of the church of
Laodicea, " Because thou sayest, I am rich, and increa-
" sed with goods, and have need of nothing ; and know-
^^ est not that in my sight thou art wretched, and miser-
" able, and poor,and blind, and naked.'' Now^, how-
ever, he ought, with regard to you, to change that re.
proach, and to say, ^^Alas thou complainest that thoîi
" art poor and destitute of every thing, and thou wilt
^' not see that thou art rich and loaded with wealth ;
" and that, in times when almost all around thee suffer,
'^ thou alone wantest for nothing in my sight."
This is the second pretext made use of in opposition
to the duty of charity ; the general poverty. Thus the
disciples reply, in the second place, to our Saviour, as
an excuse for not assisting the famished multitude, thai;
the place is desert and barren, that it is now late, and
that he ouglit to *^end t^way the people that they might
3â8 SEBMOJSr XL
go into the country round about, and into the villages,
and buy themselves bread, for they had nothing to eat.
Here then is a new pretext, made use of to absolve our-
selves from compassion ; the misery of the times, the
sterility and irregularity of the seasons.
But, in the first place, Might not our Saviour have
answered the disciples, in the language of St Chrysos-
tome, " It is because the place is barren and desert, and
^ that this people knows not where to find food to allay
^ their hunger, tliat they should not be sent away fas»
' ting, lest their strength fail them by the way.' And,
thus my brethren, might I also reply to you ; the times
are bad, the seasons are unfavourable : Ah ! it is for
that very reason that you ought to enter with a more
feeling concern, with a more lively and tender anxiety,
into the wants of your fellow-creatures. If the place
be desert and barren even for you, what must it be for
so many unfortunate people ? If you, with all your re-
sources, feel so much the misery of the times, what must
they not suffer, who are destitute of every comfort? If
the plagues of Egypt obtrude even into the palaces of
the great, and of Pharaoh ; what must be the desolation
in the hut of the poor and of the labourer? If the prin
ces of Israel, in tne afflicted land of Samaria, no longer
find consolation in their palaces ; what must be the suffer-
ings of the obscure populace, reduced perhaps like the
unfortunate mother, not to nourish herself with the blood
of her child, but to make her innocence and her soul the
melancholy price of her necessity.
But, moreover, these evils with which we are affile
ted, and of which you so loudly complain, are the pun-
ishment of your hardness of heart towards the poor :
God avengeth ujjou your possessions the iniquitous use
O.V CHARITY. 329
to whicli you apply them ; it is the cries and the groan -
ing« of the unfortunate whom you abandon which draw
down the vengeance of Heaven upon your lands and
territories. It is in these times, then, of public calamity,
that you ought to hasten to appease the anger of God,
by the abundance of your charities: it is then that, more
than ever, you should interest the poor in your behalf.
Alas ! you bethink yourselves of addressing your sup-
plications to the Almiglity, in order to obtain more fa-
vourable seasons, the cessation of public calamities, and
the return of peace and abundance ; but it is not there
alone that your vows and your prayers ought to be car-
ried ; you can never expect to find the Almighty atten-
tive to your distresses, while you remain callous to those
of your fellow-creatures ; you have here on earth the
rulers of the winds and seasons ; address yourselves to
the poor and the afflicted ; it is they who have as I may
say, the keys of heaven ; it is their prayers which regu-
late the times and seasons ; which bring back to us days
of peace or of misery ; which arrest or attract the bles-
sings of heaven ; for abundance is given to the earth,
only for their consolation ; and it is only on their ac-
count that the Almighty punisheth, or is bountiful to
you.
But, in order completely to confute you, my brethren,
who so strongly allege the evil of the times ; I ask, does
the pretended rigour of these times retrench any thing
from your plea^sures? What do your passions suffer from
the public calamities? If the misfortune of the times o-
blige you to retrench from your expenses, begin with
those of which religion condemns the use ; regulate your
tables, your apparel, your amusements, your followers,
and your edifices, according to the gospel ; let your re^-
Yol. I, 40
830 t,EJiMOJ\' XL
tienclimelits in charity, at least, only follovr the others 5
lessen your crimes before you begin to diminish from
your duties. When the Almighty strikes with sterility
the kingdoms of the earth, it is his intention to deprive
the great and the powerful of all temptations to debauch-
ery and excess ; accomodate yourselves, then, to his Jus-
tice, and wisdom ; consider yourselves as public crimi^^
nais, whom the Lord chastiseth by public punishments:
say to him, like David, when he beheld the hand of tlic
Lord weighing down his people, '' Lo, 1 have sinned,
and have done wickedly ; but these sheep, M^hat have
they done ? Let thine hand, I pray thee, be against me
and against my fathers house.'^
Here, then, is a model for you ; by terminating your
disorders, terminate the cause of public evils : in the
persons of the poor, offer up to God the retrenchment of
your pleasures and of your profusion, as the only righte-
ous and acceptable sacrifice by which his anger may be
disarmed ; and since these scourges fall upon the earth,
only by way of punishment for the ill use which you
have made of your abundance, bear you likewise, in
lessening these abuses, their anguish and bitterness. But
if the public misfortunes should be perceivable neither
in the splendour and pride of your equipages, nor in the
sensuality of your repasts, nor in the magnificence of
your palaces, nor in your rage for gaming and every
criminal pleasure, but solely in your inhumanity to-
Avards the poor ; if theatres, profane assemblies of eve-
ry description, and public festivals, continue with the
same vigour and animation, while charity alone is chil-
led ; if luxury every day increase, while compassion
alone diminishes ; if the world and the devil lose no-
tiling through the misery of the times^ while Jesus Christ
O.V CHARITY. 331
aloue siiifers through his afflicted members ; if the rich^
sheltered in their opulence, see only from afar the anger
of Heaven, while the poor and the innocent become its
melancholy victims ; Then, Oh God ! wouldst Thou
overwhelm only the unfortunate, in sending these scour-
ges upon the earth ; thy sole intention then would be to
complete the destruction of those miserable wretches,
upon whom thy hand was already so heavy iu briuging
them forth to penury and want ! The powerful of Egypt
would alone be exempted by the exterminating angel,
while thy whole wrath would fall upon the afflicted Is-
raelite, upon his poor and comfortless roof, marked even
as it is with the blood of the Lamb ! Yes, my brethren,
public calamities are destined to punish only the rich
and powerful ; and the rich and the powerful are those
who alone suffer not : On the contrary, public evils, by
multiplying the unfortunate, furnish an additional pre-
text towards absolving themselves from the duty of com-
passion.
I come now to the last excuse of the disciples, found!
ed on the great number of persons, who had followed
our Saviour into the desert : These people are so nu-
merous, said they, that two hundred pennyworth of
bread is not sufficient for them, that every one may take
a little. This is the last pretext, by which the duty of
charity is evaded : the multitude of the poor. Yes my
brethren, that which ought to excite and to animate
charity, extinguishes it : the number of the unfortunate
hardens you to their wants ; the more the duty increases,
the more do you think yourselves absolved from its
practice, and you become cruel, by having too many
occasions of being charitable.
Eut, in the fust place, whence comes, I pray you^
33â SE HMO. Y XL
this multitude of poor, of which you so loudly complain ?
I know that the misfortune of the times may increase
their number ; but wars, pestilence, and irregularity of
seasons, all of which we at present experience, have hap-
pened in all ages : the calamities we behold are not un-
exampled; our forefathers have witnessed iliem, and
some even much more melancholy and dreadful : they
beheld civil disseutions ; the father armed against the
child, and the brother against brother; countries ravaged
and laid waste by their own inhabitants ; the kingdom a
prey to foreign enemies ; no one in safety under his own
roof : we have none of these miseries : but have they seen
what we witness ? so many public and hidden miseries ;
so many families extinct ; so many citizens, formerly dis-
tinguished, now^ humbled to the dust, and confounded
with the meanest of the people ; the arts become almost
useless ; the image of hunger and death spread over the
cities, and the country? What shall I say? So many
hidden iniquities, brought every day to light, the dread-
ful consequences of despair, and horrible necessity —
Whence comes this, my brethren ? Is it not from a lux-
ury unknown to our fathers, and which squanders away
every thing? from your expenses, which know no
bounds, and which necessarily bring along with them the
extinction of charity ?
Was not the primitive church persecuted, desolated,
and afflicted ? Do the calamities of our age bear any
comparison with the horrors of those times ? Proscrip-
tion of property, exile and imprisonment, took place then
every day ; the most burdensome charges of the state
fell upon those who were suspected of Christianity : In
a word, so many calamities were never beheld ; and
nevertheless, there was no poor among them, says St.
ox CHARlW. S33
Luke, nor any that lacked. Ah ! It is, because riches
of honesty sprung up, even from their poverty itself, ac-
cording to the expression of the apostle ; it is because
they gave according to their means, and even beyond
them ; it is, because the most distant provinces, through
the care of the apostolick ministers, were watered by the
streams of charity, for the consolation of their afflicted
brethren in Jerusalem, more exposed than the rest to the
rage and hatred of the synagogue.
But more than all that, it is, because the most power-
ful of the primitive believers were adorned with modes-
ty ; aiid that our great riches are now scarcely sufficient
to support that monstrous luxury, of which custom has
made a law to us ; it is, that their festivals were repasts
of sobriety and charity; and that the holy abstinence it-
self, wliich we celebrate, cannot moderate among us the
profusion, and the excesses of our table ; it is, that ha-
ving no fixed city here below, they did not exhaust them-
selves in forming brilliant establishments, in order to
render their names illustrious, to exalt their posterity,
and ennoble their own obscurity and meanness ; they
thought only of securing to themselves a better establish-
ment in the celestial country : whereas at present no
one is contented with his station ; every one wishes to
mount higher than his ancestors, and employs his patri
mony only in buying titles and dignities, which may ob-
literate his name and the meanness of his origin : in a
word, it is, because the frugality of these first believers
constituted the whole wealth of their afflicted brethren,
whereas at present our profusion occasions all their pov-
erty and want. It is our excesses then, my brethren,
and our hardness of heart towards them, which multiply
the number of the unfortunate : excuse no more then on
334 SERMOJsr xi.
that ground^ the failing of your charities ; for that would
be making your guilt itself your excuse. Ah ! you com-
plain that the poor overburden you ; but they will have
reason one day to retort the charge against you : do not
then accuse them for your insensibility ; and reproach
them not with that^ for which they shall undoubtedly one
day reproach you, before the tribunal of Jesus Christ.
If each of you were, according to the advice of the
Apostle, to appropriate a certain portion of your wealth
towards the subsistence of the poor ; if, in the computa-
tion of your expenses and of your revenues, this article
w ere to be always regarded as the most sacred, and the
most inviolable one ; then should we quickly see the
number of the afflicted to diminish : We should soon
see renewed in tlie church, that peace, that happiness^
and that cheerful equality, which reigned among the
first Christians ; we should no longer beliold with sor-
row, that monstrous disproportion, which, elevating the
one, places him on the pinnacle of prosperity and opu-
lence, while the other crawls on the ground, and groans
in the depth of poverty and affliction : no longer would
there be any, except the impious, unhappy ; there would
then be no secret miseries, except those which sin ope-
rates in the soul ; no tears, except those of penitence ; no
sighs, but for heaven ; no poor, but those blessed disci-
ples of the gospel, who renounce all to follow their Mas-
ter. Our cities would be the abode of innocence and
compassion ; religion would be a commerce of charity ;
the earth, an image of heaven, where, in dift'erent de-
grees of glory, each is equally happy ; and the enemies
of faith would again, as formerly, be forced to render
glory to God, and to confess that there is something di-
vine in a religion which is capable of uniting men to-
sether in so novel a manner.
ojsr CHARITY, B35
But, the great mistake of the world on this point, is,
that in practice, nobody considers charity as one of the
most essential obligations of Christianity ; consequently,
there are no rules on that point : if some bounty be be-
stowed, it is always arbitrary ; and however small it be,
men are equally satisfied with themselves, as if they
had even gone beyond their duty.
Besides, when you pretend to excuse the scantiness
of your charities, by saying that the number of the poor
is endless ; do you know the extent of what you say ?
You say in fact that your obligations, with respect to
them, are become only more indispensable ; that your
compassion ought to increase, in proportion as their
wants increase ; and that you contract new debts, when-
ever any increase of the unfortunate takes place on the
earth. It is then, my brethren, it is during these pub-
lic calamities, that you ought to retrench even from ex-
penses, which might at any other period be permittetl,
and even proper ; it is then, that you ought to consider
yourselves but as one of the poor, and to take as a char-
ity whatever you take for yourselves ; it is then, that
you are no longer, either a grandee, a courtier, a distin-
guished citizen, or a woman of illustrious birth ; you are
simply a believer, a member of Jesus Christ, the brother
of every afflicted Christian.
And surely, while cities and provinces are struck with
every calamity ; while men, created after the image of
God, and redeemed with His blood, devour grass
like the animals, and are reduced to the necessity of
searching in the fields for a food which nature has not
intended for man, and which to them is as poison;*
* « This discourse was pronounced in 1709, when France was
almost desolated by war, pestilence, and famine,"
336 sehjmojY xi
would you have the resolution to be the only one ex-
empted from the general evil ? While the face of a Miiole
kingdom is changed^ and cries and lamentations alone
are heard around your superb dwelling ; would you pre-
serve within the same appearance of happiness, pomp,
tranquillity, and opulence ? Where, then, would be hu-
manity, reason, or religion ? In a Pagan republic, you
would be held as a bad citizen ; in a society of worldly
sages, as a vile and sordid being , without nobility, gen-
erosity, or elevation of mind ; and, in the church of Jesus
Christ, in what light, think you, can you be held ? Oh I
As a monster, unworthy of the name of Christian which
you bear, unworthy of that faith in which you glorify
yourself, unworthy of the sacrament which you ap-
proach, and unworthy even of an entry into our temples,
seeing all these are the sacred symbols of that union
which ought to exist among believers.
Nevertheless, you cannot but perceive that the hand
of the Lord is extended over our people, in every city
and province : Heaven is deaf to the cries of this afflic-
ted kingdom ; wretchedness, poverty, desolation, and
death, walk every where before us. Now, do any of
those excesses of charity, escape you which have now
become prudent and just ? Do you take any part in the
calamities of your brethren ? What shall I say — Do
you not perhaps take advantage of the public misery ?
Do you not perhaps turn the general poverty into a bar-
barous profit? Do you not perhaps complete the strip-
ping of the unfortunate, in affecting to hold out to them
an assisting hand ? And, are you unacquainted with the
inhuman art of deriving individual profit, even from the
tears and the necessities of your brethren ? Oh ! hard
hearte.d saith the spirit of the Lord, your selfish felicity
OJ\r CHARITT. 337
itself will constitute your punishment, and He sliall
shower down upon you his war and his wrath.
My brethren, how dreadful shall be the presence of
the poor before the tribunal of Jesus Christ, to the great-
est part of the rich in this world ! How powerful shall
be these accusers ? And how little shall remain for you
to say, w hen they shall reproach you with the scanti-
ness of the succour which was required to soften and re-
lieve their wants : when you shall be reminded that a
single day, cut off from your profusion, would have suf-
ficed to remedy the indigence of one of their years ; that
it was their own property which you with-held, since
whatever you had, beyond a sufficiency, belonged to
them ; that consequently, you have not only been cruel,
but also unjust, in refusing it to them ; but that, after
all, your hard heartedness has served only to exercise
their patience, and to render them more worthy of im-
mortality, while you, for ever deprived of those riches,
which you were unwilling to lodge in safety in the bo-
som of the poor, shall receive for your portion, only the
curse prepared for those, who shall have seen Jesus
Christ suffering hunger, thirst, and nakedness in his
members, and shall not have relieved him. Such is the
illusion of the pretexts employed to absolve men from
the duty of charity ; let us now determine the rules to
be observed, in fulfilling it ; and, after having defended
this obligation against all the vain excuses of avarice,
let us endeavour to save it from even tlie defects of char
ity.
Part II. Not to sound the trumpet in order to at-
tract the public attention, in the compassionate offices
which we render to our brethren ; to observe an order
VoL T, 41
338 SEliMOJsi' XL
even of justice iiicliaritj, aud not to prefer the wants of
strangers to those with whom we are connected ; to ap-
pear touched with feeling for the unfortunate, and to
know how to soothe the afflicted by our tenderness and
affability, as well as by our bounty ; in a word, to find
out, by our vigilance and attention, the secret of their
distress; these are the rules which the example of
our Saviour prescribes to us, in the practice of compas-
sion.
In the first place. He went up into a desert and hid-
den place, says the gospel ; He ascended a mountain,
where He seated himself with his disciples. His de-
sign, according to the holy interpreters, was to conceal
from the eyes of the neighbouring villages the miracle
of multiplying the loaves, and to have no witnesses of
his compassion except those that were to reap the fruits
of it. Here, then, is the first instruction, and the first
rule ; the secrecy of charity.
Yes, my brethren, how many fruits of compassion are
every day blasted in the sight of God, by the scorching
wind of pride and of vain ostentation ! How many acts of
charity are lost for eternity ! How many treasures, which
were believed to have been safely lodged in the bosom of
the poor, shall one day appear corrupted with vermin,
and consumed with rust !
It iâ true, that there are not many of these gross and
bare-faced hypocrites who openly vaunt to the world tJie
merit of their pious exertions ; pride is more cunning,
and never altogether unmasks itself; but, how diminu-
tive is the number of those, who, moved with the true
zeal of charity, like our Saviour, seek out solitary and
private places to bestow, and, at the same time to con-
ceal their holy gift ! We now see only that ostentatious
zeal, which is interested by nothing mean or obscure^
and which piously wishes to make the public acquaint-
ed with their gifts ; such men will sometimes, it is true,
adopt measures to conceal them, but they are not sorry
when an indiscretion betrays them ; they will not per-
haps court- the public attention, but they are delighted
when the public attention surprises them, and the liber-
ality which remains concealed, the>y almost consider as
lost.
Alas ! our temples and our altars, are they not every
where marked with the gifts and with the names of their
benefactors ? in other words, are they not the public
monuments of the vanity of our forefathers and of our-
selves ? If the invisible eye of the heavenly Father a-
lone was meant to have witnessed them, to what pur-
pose is all this vain ostentation ? Are you afraid that
the liord should forget your oflerings? If you wish only
to please him, why expose your gifts to any other eye?
Why are these titles and tliese inscriptions which im-
mortalize, on sacred walls, your gifts and your pride ?
Was it not sufficient that they were written even by the
jiand of God in the book of life ? W^hy engrave on per-
ishing marble the merit of a deed, which charity v. ould
have rendered immortal?
After having conij)letcd the most superb and the most
magnificent temple of which the earth could ever boast,
Solomon engraved the awful name of the Lord alone
upon it, without presuming to mingle any memorial
of the grandeur of his race with those of the eternal ma-
jesty of the King of kings. VV^e give an appellation of
piety to our own custom ; it is tliought that these pub-
lic monuments excite the liberality of believers. But
do you suppose that the Lord, hath charged your vaui=
340 sermojY xi.
ty with the care of attracting gifts to his altars ? Hath
He permitted you to depart from modesty, in order to
make your hrethren more charitable ? Alas ! the most
powerful among the primitive believers carried as hum-
bly, as the most obscure, their patrimony to the feet of
tJie apostles : They beheld with an holy joy their names
and their wealth confounded among those of their breth-
ren, who had less than they to offer ; they were not
then distinguished in the assembly of the faithful in pro-
portion to their gifts ; honours and precedence were not
yet the price of gifts and offerings, and they knew bet-
ter than to exchange the eternal recompense which they
awaited from the Lord, for any frivolous glory they
could receive from men : and yet, in these times, the
church has not privileges enough to satisfy the vanity of
her benefactors ; their places are marked out in the sanc-
tuary ; their tombs appear even under the altar, where
only the ashes of martyrs should repose ! Custom, it is
true, autliorizes this abuse ; but custom does not always
justify what it authorizes.
Charity, my brethren, is that savoury odour of Jesus
Christ, which vanishes and is extinguished from the mo-
ment that it is exposed. I mean not that we ought to
refrain from public acts of compassion. We owe the
edification and example of them to our brethren ; it is
proper that they should see our works ; but we ought
not ourselves to see them, and our left hand should be
ignorant of what our right bestows : even those actions
which duty renders the most shining, ought always to be
hidden in the preparation of the heart ; we ought to en-
tertain a kind of jealousy of the public view on their ac-
count, and to believe their purity safe, only when they
are exposed to the eyes pf God alone. Yes. my breth-
len, those liberalities which have flowed mostly in se-
cret, reach the bosom of God much more pure than
others, which, having Ij^en exposed to the eyes of men
even contrary to our wishes, become troubled and defi-
led, as 1 may say, in their course, by the inevitable flat-
teries of self-love, and by the applauses of the behold-
ers ; like those rivers which chiefly flow under ground,
and pour their streams into the ocean pure and undefi-
led, while, on the contrary, those which have traversed
plains and countries, exposed to the light, carry there,
in general, only muddy waters, and drag along with
them the wrecks, carcases, and slime, which they have
gathered in their course. Behold, then, the first rule of
charity which our Saviour lays down ; to shun show and
ostentation in all works of compassion ; to be unwilling
to have your name mentioned in them, either en account
of the rank which you may hold, or from the glory of
having been the first promoter, or from the noise which
they may make in the world, and not to lose upon the
earth that which charity had amassed only for heaven.
The second circumstance which I remark in our gos-^
pel is, that no one of all the multitude who present them-
selves to Jesus Christ is rejected ; all are indiscrimi-
nately relieved ; and we do not read, that, with regard
to them, our Saviour hath used any distinction or pref-
erence. From this we may gather a second rule, that
charity is universal, and banishes those capricious lib-
eralities which seem to open the heart to certain wants,
only in order to shut it against all others. You find
persons in the world, who, under the pretext of having
stated charities and places destined to receive them, are
callous to all other wants. In vain would you inform
them that a family is on the brink of ruin, and that a
^lâ SEUMOJS,* Xi
very small assistance would extricate it ; that a young
person hangs over a precipice, and must necessarily per-
ish, if some friendly and assisting hand be not held out ;
that a meritorious and useful establishment must fail, if
not supported by a renewal of charity : these are not ne-
cessities after their taste ; and, in bestowing elsewhere
some trifling bounties, they imagine that they have pur-
chased the right of beholding with a dry eye and an in-
different heart, every other description of misery.
I know that charity hath its order and its bounds ;
that in its practice it ought to use a proper distinction ;
that justice requires a preference to certain wants ; but
I would not have that methodical charity, if 1 may thus
speak, which knows to a point, where to stop ; which
has its days, its places, its persons, and its limits;
which, beyond these, is cruel, and can make a rule with
itself, to be affected only in certain times and by certain
wants. Ah ! are we thus masters of our hearts when
we truly love our brethren ? Can we, at our will, mark
out to ourselves the moments of warmth and of indiffer-
ence? Charity, that holy love, is it so regular when it
truly inflames the heart ? Has it not, if 1 may say so,
its transports and excesses? And do not occasions some-
times occur so truly affecting, that, did but a single spark
of charity exist in your heart, it would show itself, and
in the instant would open your bowels of compassion
and your riches to your brother ?
I would not have tliat rigidly circumspect charity,
which is never tired of scrutiny, and which always mis-
trusts the truth of the necessities laid open to it. See if,
in that multitude which our Saviour flUeth, he apply
himself to separate those whom idleness only, or the hope
of corporeal nourishment perhaps had attracted to the
OJ^ CHARITT. 343
desert, and who might still have had sufficient strength
left to go and search for food in the neighbouring villa-
ges-^no one is excepted from his divine bounty — Is the
being reduced to feign wretchedness not a sufficient mis-
ery of itself ? Is it not preferable to assist fictitious wants
rather than to run the risk of refusing assistance to real
and melancholy objects of compassion ? Should even
an impostor deceive your charity, where is the loss? Is
it not always Jesus Christ who receives it from your
hand ? And is your recompence attached to the abuse
which may be made of your bounty, or to the intention
itself which bestows it ?
From this rule there springs a third, laid down in the
history of our gospel, at the same time with the other
two ; it is, that not only ought charity to be universal,
but likewise mild, affable, and compassionate. Jesus
Christ beholding these people wandering and unprovi-
ded at the foot of the mountain, is touched with compas-
sion ; he is affected at the sight, and the wants of the
multitude awaken his tenderness and pity. The third
rule therefore is, the gentleness of charity.
We often accompany pity with so much asperity to-
wards the unfortunate, while stretching out to them an
helping hand ; we look upon them with so sour and so
severe a countenance, that a simple denial had been less
galling to them than a charity so harshly and so unfeel-
ingly bestowed ; for the pity which appears affected by
our misfortunes, consoles them almost as much as the
bounty which relieves them. We reproach them with
their strength, their idleness, their wandering and vaga-
bond manners ; we attribute their indigence and wretch-
edness to their own conduct ; and, in succouring, we
purchase the right of insulting them. ' But^ were the un
3.44? s^iiMoj\r xt
liappy creature whom you outrage permitted to reply ;
if the abject nature of his situation had not put the check
of shame and respect upon his tongue ; with what do you
reproach me? would he say; An idle life, and useless and
vagabond manners ; But what are the cares which in your
opulence engross you ? The cares of ambition, the anx-
ieties of fortune, the impulses of the passions^ the re-
finements of voluptuousness : I may be an unprofitable
servant, but are you not yourself an unfaithful one?
Ah ! if the most culpable were always to be the poorest
and the most unfortunate in this world, would your lot
be superior to mine ? You reproach me with a strength
which I apply to no purpose ; but to what use do you
apply your own? Because I work not, you say I ought
not to have food ; but why are you absolved from that
law? Are you rich merely that you may pass your life
in a shameful effeminacy and sloth ? Ah ! the Lord will
judge between us ; and before his awful tribunal it shall
be seen, whether your voluptuousness and profusion
were more allowable in you, than the innocent artifice
which I employ to attract assistance to my sufferings.
Yes, my brethren, let us at least show the unfortu-
nate that we have hearts feeling for their wants ; if the
mediocrity of our fortune permit us not altogether to re-
lieve our indigent fellow -creatures, let us by our hu-
manity, at least, soften the yoke of poverty. Alas ! like
Augustin in the period of his errors, we give tears to
the fictitious adventures of a theatrical personage ; we
honour feigned misfortunes with real sensibility ; we
depart from a representation with hearts still moved for
the disasters of a fabulous hero ; and a member of Je^
sus Christ, an inheritor of heaven, and your brother^
whom vou encounter in your way from thence, sinking
OJ\r CHARITY, 3^
perhaps under disease and penury, and who wishes to
inform you of the excess of his sufferings, finds you cal-
lous ! You turn your eyes with disgust from the specta-
cle, and deign not to listen to him ! You quit him even
with a rudeness and brutality, which tend to wring his
heart with sorrow ! Inhuman soul ! have you then left
all your sensibility on an infamous theatre ? Does the
spectacle of Jesus Christ suffering in one of his mem-
bers offer nothing worthy of your pity ? And, in order
that your heart may be touched, must the ambition, the
revenge, the voluptuousness, and all the other horrors
of the pagan ages be revived ?
But, it is not enough for us to offer hearts feeling for
the distresses, which present themselves to our view ;
charity goes farther : it does not indolently await those
occasions which chance may throw in its way ; it know^s
how to search them out, and even to anticipate them.
This is the last rule ; the vigilance of charity. Jesus
Christ waits not till those poor people address themselves
to him, and lay open their wants : He is the first to dis-
cover them ; Scarcely has he found them out, when,
with Philip, he searches the means of relieving them.
That charity, which is not vigilant, anxious after the
calamities of which it is yet ignorant, ingenious in dis-
covering those which endeavour to remain concealed,
and which require to be solicited, pressed, and even im-
portuned, resembles not the charity of Jesus Christ ;
we must watch, and penetrate the obscurity which
shame opposes to our bounties ; this is not a simple ad-
vice ; it is the consequence of the precept of charity.
The pastors, who, according to faith, are the fatliers of
the people, are obliged to watch over their spiritual con-
cerns ; and this is one of the most essential functions of
Vol, L 4â
34?6 SERMOJ^^ XI
their ministiy ; (he rich and the powerful are established
l)y God, the fathers and the pastors of the poor, according
to the body. They are bound then to watch continual-
ly over their necessities : if, through want of vigilance,
they escape their attention, they are guilty before God
of all the consequences, which a trifling succour bestow-
ed in time would have prevented.
1 do not mean, that you are required to find out all
the secret necessities of a city ; but care and attention
are exacted of you ; it is required, of you, who, through
your wealth or birth, liold the first rank in a depart-
ment, nt^t to be surrounded, unknown to you, by thou-
Niands of unfortunate fellow-creatures who pine in secret,
and whose eyes are continually wounded with the pomp
of your train, and who, besides their wretchedness, suf-
fer anew, as I may say, in your prosperity : It is re^^ui-
red of you, who, amid all the pleasures of the court, or
of the city, see flowing into your hands, the fruits of the
sweat and of the labour of so many unfortunate people,
who inhabit your lands and your fields ; it is required
of you that you be acquainted with those, whom the toils
of industry and of age have exhausted, and who, in their
humble dwellings, drag on the wretched remains of age
and poverty ; those whom languishing health renders
incapable of labour, their only resource against indigence
and want ; those whom sex and age expose to seduc-
tion, and whose innocence you might have been enabled
to preserve. Behold what is required, and what we
have a right to exact of you ; it is that you should take
care of the poor with whom the Lord hath charged you,
and for whom you shall answer to him ; whom He lea-
veth on the earth only for your sake, and to whom his pro-
OJV CHARITY. 34,^
vidence liatli assigned no other resource, than your
wealth, and your ])Ouuty.
Now, I ask, are they even known to you ? Do you
charge their pastoi*s to make them known to you ? Are
these the rares which occupy you, when you show your»
self in the midst of your lands and possessions? Alas Î
It is to force with cruelty your claims from the hands
of these unfortunate people ; to tear from their howels
the innocent price of tlieir toil, without regard to their
want, to the misery of the times, to their tears, and often
to their despair : What shall I say ? It is perhaps to
crush down their weakness, to be tlieir tyrant, and not
their Lord and their father. O God ! Dost thou not
cause these cruel generations, and these riches of iniqui-
ty? Dost thou not stamp them with the marks of mis-
foi^une and desolation, w hich sliall soon blast the source
of their families, w ither the root of a proud posterity,
and produce domestic discord, public disgrace, and the
fall and total extinction of houses ? Alas ! We are some-
times astonis^lied to see fortunes apparently the best es-
tablished, go to wreck in an instant ; to see ancient, and
formerly illustrious names fallen into obscurity, and
offering to our view, but the melancholy wrecks of
their ancient splendour ; and their estates become the
property of their rivals, or perhaps of their own servants.
Ah ! Could we investigate the source of their misfor-
tunes ; if their ashes, and the pompous wrecks, which
in the pride of their monuments remain to us of their glo-
ry, could speak : Do you observe, they would say to
us, these sad marks of our grandeur ? It is the tears of
llie poor whom we neglected, and oppressed, wJiich have
gradually sapped, and at last have totally overthrown
them \ their cries have drawn down the thunder of hea-
34,8 SERMOjy XL
yen upon our palaces : The Lord liath blown upon our
superb edifices, and upon our fortune, and hath dissipa*
ted them like dust : let the name of the poor be honoura-
ble m your sight, if you wish that your names may never
perish in the meme)ry of men : let compassion sustain
jour liouses. if you wish that your posterity be not bu-
ried under their ruins : become wise at our cost ; and
let our misfortunes in teaching you our faults^ teach you
also to shun them»
And thus, my brethren, (as I shall say a few words
on this head, before 1 conclude,) you may observe the
first advantage of Christian charity ; blessings even in
this w^orld. The bread blessed by our Saviour, multi-
plies in the hands of the Apostles who distribute it ; five
thousand are- satisfied ; and twelve baskets can hardly
contai u the remnants gathered up : that is to say, the
gifts of charity are holy riches, which multiply in pro-
portion as they are distributed, and which bear along
with them into our bouses a source of happiness and
abundance. Yes, my brethren, charity is a gain ; it is
an holy usury ; it is a principle which returns, even
here below, an hundred-fold. You sometimes complain
of a fatality in your affairs ; nothing succeeds with you ;
men deceive; rivals supplant ; masters neglect you ; the
elements conspire against you ; the best concerted
schemes are blasted ; associate with you, therefore, the
poor ; divide with them the increase of your fortune ; in
proportion as your prosperity augments, do you aug-
ment your benefactions ; flourish for them as well as for
yourself : God himself shall then be interested in your
success ; you will then have found out the secret of enga-
ging him in your fortune, and he will preserve, nay
more, He will bless, He will multiply riches, in
oj\r CHARrt'Y, 34,9
which He sees blended the portion of His afflicted
member.
This is a truth, confirmed by the experience of all
ages ; charitable families are continually seen to pros»
per : a watchful Providence presides over all their af-
fairs ; where others are ruined they become rich : they
are seen to flourish, but the secret canal is not perceived,
which pours in upon them their property : they are the
fleeces of Gideon, covered with the dew of Heaven,
while all around is barren and dry.
Such is the first advantage of compassion. 1 say no.
thing even of the pleasure, which we ought to feel in
the delightful task of soothing those who suflfer, in ma»
king a fellow-creature happy, in reigning over hearts,
and in attracting to ourselves, the innocent tribute of
their acclamations and their thanks. O ! were we to
reap but the pleasure of bestowing, would it not be an
ample recompense to a worthy heart ? What has even
the majesty of the throne more delicious, than the poAver
of dispensing favours ? Would princes feel much at-
tachment to their grandeur, and to their power, w re
they confined to a solitary enjoyment of them ? No^ ky
brethren, make your riches subservient as you will, to
your pleasures, to your profusion, and to your caprices ;
but never will you employ them in a way which shall
leave a joy so pure, and so worthy of the heart, as in
that of comforting the unfortunate.
What, indeed, can be more grateful to the heart,
than the confidence that there is not a moment in the
day, in which some afflicted souls are not raising up
their hands to Heaven for us, and blessing the day
which gave us birth ? Hear that multitude whom Jesus
Christ hath filled ; the air resounds with their blessingf^
350 sermojY XL
and thanks ; they say to themselves, this is a prophet ;
they wish to make him their king. Ah ! Were men to
choose their masters, it would neither be the most noble,
Dor tlie most valiant ; it would be the most compas-
sionate, the most humane, the most charitable, the most
feeling: they would choose masters who, at the same
time, would be their fathers.
Lastly, I need not add that Christian charity assists
in expiating the crimes of abundance ; and that it is al-
most the only means of salvation which Providence hath
provided for you, who are born to prosperity. Were
charity insufficient to redeem our offences, we might cer-
tainly think ourselves entitled to complain, says a holy
Father ; we might take it ill, that God had deprived
men of so easy a means of salvation ; we might at least
say that, could we but open the gates of Heaven, through
the means of our riches, and purchase with our whole
wealth the glory of the hrly, we then should be happy.
Well, my brethren, continues the holy Father, profit by
this privilege, seeing it is granted to you ; hasten, be-
fore your riches moulder away, to deposit them in the
bosom of the poor, as the price of the kingdom of Hea-
ven : the malice of men might perhaps have deprived
you of them ; your passions might have perhaps swal-
lowed them up ; the turns of fortune might have trans-
ferred them to other hands ; and death, at last, would
sooner or later have separated you from them : but
charity alone deposits them beyond the reach of all
these accidents ; it renders you their everlasting pos-
sessor ; it lodges them in safety in the eternal taber-
nacles, and gives you the right of forever enjoying them
in the bosom of God himself.
Are you not happy in being able to assure to your=
OJV CHARITY, 831
self admittance into heaven by means so easy ; in being
able, by clothing the naked, to efface from the book of
divine justice the obscenities, the luxury, and the irreg-
ularities of your younger years ; in being able, by filling
the hungry, to repair all the sensualities of your life ; and
lastly, in being able, by sheltering innocence in the asy-
lums of compassion, to blot out from the remembrance
of God the ruin of so many souls, to whom you have
been a stumbling-block ? Great God ! what goodness
dost thou not show to man, to consider as meritorious a vir-
tue which costs so little to the heart ! To number in our
favour feelings of humanity of which we could never di-
vest ourselves, without being, at tlie same time, dives-
ted of our nature ; to be willing to accept, as the price
of an eternal kingdom, frail riches, which we even
enjoy only through Thy bounty; which we could ne-
ver continue to possess, and from which, after a mo-
mentary and fleeting enjoyment, we n»ust at last be
separated ! Nevertheless, mercy is promised to him
who shall have shown it ; a sinner still feeling for
the calamities of his brethren, will not continue long
insensible to the inspirations of heaven ; grace still re-
serves claims upon a heart in which charity has not
altogether lost its influence ; a good heart cannot long
continue an hardened one ; that principle of human-
ity alone, which operates m rendering the heart feel-
ing for the wants of others, is a preparation, as it
were, for penitence and salvation ; and while charity
still acts in the heart, an ha^ppy conversion is never to
be despaired of Love then the poor as your brethren;
cherish them as your offspring ; respect them as Jesus
Christ himself, in order that He may say to you on the
great day, '' Come ye blessed of my Father^ inherit the
SERMOJV XL
^' kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the
" world. For I was an hungered, and ye gave me
" meat ; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink ; I was
'' a stranger, and ye took me in ; I was naked, and ye
'^ clothed me ; I was sick, and ye visited me : For
'' inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least
■-' of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."
( 353 )
SERMON XII
ON AFFLICTIONS.
•:->:•*:
Matthew xi. 6.
Ând blessed is he, whosoever shall not he offended
in me.
It is therefore my brethren a blessing, and it is a rare
blessing, not to be offended in Jesus Christ. But what
was there or what could there be in him, who is wisdom
itself, the glory of the father, and the substantial image
of all perfection, which could afford a subject of scandal
to men ? It is his cross, my dearest brethren — that cross
which was formerly tlie shame of the Jews ; and is, and
shall be, to the end of ages, the shame of the greatest
part of Christians. But, wiieu I say that the cross of
the Saviour is tlie shame of most Christians, I mean not
only the cross that He bore, but more especially that
which we are obliged, from his example, to bear ; with-
out which He rejects us from the number of his disciples^
Vol. I, 43
Sol •> ^ Ji JJ ujv xii
0!i(l (Iciiios tis any participation of that glory into wiiicli
He lias entered, through the cross alone.
Tliis is what displeases ns, and what we find to com
plain of in our divine Saviour. We would wish, that,
since it was necessary for him to suffer, his sufferings
bad been a title, as it were, of exemption, by which wc
sliould merit the privilege of not suffering with him.
Let ns dispel this error, my dearest brethren. The on-
ly thing which depends on us, is to render our sufferings
meritorious ; hut to suffer, or not to suffer, is not left to
our choice. Providence has so wisely dispensed the
good and evil of this life, that each in his station, how-
ever happy his lot may appear, finds crosses and af-
flictions, which always counterbalance his pleasures.
There is no perfect happiness on earth ; for this is not
the time of consolation, but the time of suffering. Gran =
deur hath its slavery and its uneasiness ; obscurity, its
humiliation and its slights ; the world, its cares and its
caprices ; retirement, its sadness and weariness ; mar-
riage, its antipathies and its madness ; friendship, its
losses or its perfidies ; piety itself, its bitterness and its
disgusts : in a word, by a destiny inevitable to the chil-
dren of Adam, each one finds his own path strewed with
brambles and thorns. The apparently happiest condi-
tion hath its secret sorrows, w hich poison all its felicity :
the throne is the seat of chagrin equally with the lowest
place ; the palace of the noble as well as the Imt of the
humble labourer has its care and discontent; and, lest
our place of exile should become endeared to us, we al-
ways feel, in a thousand different ways, that something
is yet wanting to our happiness.
, Destined, nevertheless as we are to suffer, we cannot
love our sufferings ; continually stricken with some af-
OjV afflictions. 355
iliction, we are unable to make a merit of our pains y
and we never render our crosses useful to us, which
have now !)ecome necessary. We are ingenious in de^
priving ourselves of the merit of all our suil'ering. At
one thwe we seek, in the weakness of our own heart, an
excuse for our peevishness and murmurings ; at another,
in the excess or in the nature of our afflictions ; and a-
gain, in the obstacles which they seem to us to cast in
the way of our salvation ; that is to say, at one time we
complain of being too weak to beai' our sufferings with
patience ; at another, that they are too excessive ; and,
lastly, that it is impossible in that situation to pay at=
tention to salvation.
Such are the three pretexts continually made use of
by the world in opposition to the Christian use of afflic-
tion : the pretext of self ^^ eakness ; the pretext of the
excess or the nature of our afflictions ; the pretext of
the obstacles which they seem to place in the way of
oiu* salvation. These are the pretexts we have now to
overthrow, by placing in opposition to them the rules of
faith. Listen then, I beseech you, be ye whom ye may,
and learn that the enjoyment of pleasures is not the on-
ly cause of condemnation to most men ; they, alas 1 are
rare on the earth, and closely followed by disgust : but
it is likewise the unchristian use they make of afflictions.
Part I. The pretext most common to the souls af-
ilicted by the Lord, is that of alleging their own weak-
ness, in order to justify the unchristian use they make
of their afflictions. They complain that they are not
endowed with a force of mind sufflcient to preserve in
them a submissive and a patient heart ; that nothing is
more conducive to hî^ppiness than the want of feeling ;
3;^6 sermojY xil
that this character saves us from endless vexations and
inevitable chagrins ; but that we cannot fashion our heart
according to our own wishes ; that religion doth not ren-
der those unfeeling and stoical who are born with the
tender feelings of humanity ; and that the Lord is too
just, to make a crime of our misfortunes.
But, to overthrow an illusion so common and so un-
worthy of piety ; 1 beg you to observe, in the first place,
that when Jesus Christ hath commanded all believers
to bear with submission and with love, the crosses pre-
pared for us by his goodness ; He hath not added, that
an order so just, so consoling, so conformable to his ex-
am j)le, should have regard only to unfeeling and impa-
tient souls. He hath not distinguished among his disci-
ples, those whom nature, pride, or reflection, had ren-
dered firmer and more constant, from those whom ten-
derness and humanity had endowed with more feeling,
in order to enjoin on the first a patience and insensibili-
ty which cost them almost nothing, and to absolve the
others, to whom they become more difficult.
On the contrary, His Divine precepts are intended as
remedies ; and tlie more we are inimical to them through
the character of our heart, the more are they proper for,
and become necessary to us. It is because you are
weak, and that the least contradiction always excites
you so much against troubles, that the Lord must puri-
fy you by tribulation and sorrow : for it is not the strong
who have occasion to be tried, but the weak.
In effect, what is it to be weak and sensitive ? It i^ in
other words only an excess of self-love ; it is the giving
up all to nature, and nothing to faith ; it is the giving
way to every impulse of inclination, and living solely
for ease and self- enjoyment, as if they constituted the
OJ\r AFFLICTIONS. S57
chief happiness of man. Now, in this situation^ and
with this excessive fund of love for the world and for
yourself, if the Lord were not to provide afflictions for
your weakness ; if He did not strike your body with an
habitual languor, which renders the world insipid to
you ; if He did not send losses and vexations, which
force you, through decency, to regularity and retirement ;
if He did not overthrow certain projects, which, by lea-
ving your fortu'ie more obscure, remove you from great»
er dangers ; if He did not place you in certain situa»
tious, where irksome and inevitable duties employ your
brightest days ; in a word, if He did not place between
your w eakness and yourself a barrier which checks and
stops you ; alas ! your innocence would soon be wreck-
ed ; you would soon make an improper and fatal use of
peace and prosperity ; you, who find no security even a»
mid afflictions and troubles, and, seeing that, afflicted
and separated from the world and from pleasure, you
cannot return to Grod ; what would be your situation, did
a more liappy destiny leave you no other check to your
desires than yourself? The same weakness and tlie
same load of self-love, which render us so feelingly a-
live to sorrow and affliction, would render us still more
so to the dangerous impressions of pleasures and of hu-
man prosperity.
It is therefore no excuse for our despondency and
murmurs, to confess that we are weak and unable to
support the strokes with which we are afflicted by God.
The weakness of our heart proceeds only from the weak-
ness of our faith ; a Christian ought to be valiant ; supe-
rior, says the Apostle, to persecution, disgrace, infirmi-
ties, and even death. He may be oppressed, continues
the Apostle, but be cannot be vanquished : he may be
85S SElîMOJ^ XIL
despoiled of his wealth, reputation, ease, and even life ;
but he cannot be robbed of that treasure of faith and of
grace which he has locked up in his heart, and which
amply consoles him for all these fleeting and frivolous
losses. He may be brought to shed tears of sensibility
and sorrow, for religion does not extinguish the feelings
of nature ; but his heart immediately disavows its weak-
ness, and turns its carnal tears into tears of penitence
and piety. What do I say ? A Christian even delights
in tribulations ; he considers them as proofs of the ten-
der watchfulness of God ; as the precious pledge of the
promises to come ; as the blessed features of resemblance
to Jesus Christ ; and as giving him an assured right to
share after this life, in His immortal glory. To be weak
and rebellious against the order of God under sufferings
is to have lost faith, and to be no longer a Christian.
I confess that there are hearts more tender and more
feelingly alive to sorrow than others ; but that sensibil-
ity is left to them only to increase the merit of their suf-
ferings, and not as an excuse for their impatience and
murmuring. It is not the feeling, but the immoderate
use of sorrow which the gospel condemns. The more
sensible we are to our afflictions, the more ought we to
be alive to the consolations of faith. The same sensi-
bility which renders our heart susceptible of chagrin,
should open it to grace, which soothes and supports it.
A good heart has many more resources against afflic-
tions, in consequence of grace finding easier access to it ;
immoderate grief is rather the consequence of passion
than of the goodness of the heart; and to be unable to
submit to God, or to taste consolation in our troubles, is
not to be tender and feeling, but intractable and despe-
rate. ^
Moreover, all the precepts of the gospel require
DJSr AFFLICTIONS, 359
strength^ and if you have not enough to support with
submission the crosses with which the liord is pleased
to afflict you, you must equally want strength for the ob-
servance of the other duties prescribed to you by the
doctrine of Jesus Christ. It requires strength of mind to
forgive an injury ; to speak well of those who traduce us ;
to conceal the faults of those who would vilify even our
virtues. It requires fortitude to be enabled to fly from a
world wliich is agreeable to us ; to tear ourselves from
pleasures towards which we are impelled by our inclina-
tions ; to resist examples authorized by the multitude^
and which custom has now almost established as a law.
Strength of mind is required to make a Christian use of
prosperity ; to be humble in prosperity, mortified in abun-
dance, poor of heart amidst perishable riches, detached
from all when possessed of all, and filled with desires
for heaven amidst all the pleasures and felicities of the
earth. It is required of us to be able to conquer our-
selves ; to repress every rising desire ; to stifle an agree-
able feeling ; to recall to order an heart which is inces-
santly straying from it. Lastly, among all the precepts
of the gospel, there is not one which does not suppose
in us a firm and lofty soul ; self-denial is every where
required ; every where is the kingdom of God described
as a field which is to be cultivated by labour ; as a vine»
yard where toil and heat must be endured; as a stage on
which continual and valiant combating is required ; in a
word, tlie disciples of Jesus Christ can never be weak
without being overcome ; and every thing, even the
smallest obligations of faith, require exertion, and bear
the mark of the cross, which is its ruling spirit ; and if
you fail but for an instant in fortitude, you are lost. To
.say then that we are weak, is to say that the entire gos-
360 sesmojY xil
pel is not ma3e for us, and that we are incapable of be»
ing not only submissive and patient, but likewise of be-
ing chaste, humble, disinterested, mortified, gentle, and
charitable.
But, however weak we may be, we ou^ht to have so
much confidence in the goodness of God, as to believe
that we are never tried, afflicted, or tempted beyond
our strength ; that the Lord always proportioneth afflic-
tions to our weakness ; that He dealeth out his cliastise-
ments like his favours, by weight and measure ; that in
striking, He meaneth not to destroy, but to purify and to
save us ; that He himself aideth us to bear the crosses
which He imposeth ; that He chastiseth us as a father,
and not as a Judge ; that the same hand which strikes,
sustains us ; and that the same rod which makes the
wound, bears the oil and the honey to soften its pain.
He knoweth the nature of our hearts, and how far we
are weak ; and as his intention in afflicting us is to sanc-
tify and not to destroy us, He knoweth what degree of
weight to give to his hand ; in order to diminish nothing
from our merit, if too light ; and, on the other side, not
to destroy it altogether, if beyond our strength.
For what other intention could He have in shedding
sorrows upon our life? Is He a cruel God, who delights
only in the misery of his creatures ? Is He a barbarous
tyrant, who finds his greatness and security to consist
only in the blood anxl in the tears of the subjects who
worship him? Is He an envious and morose master, who
can taste of no happiness while sharing it with his slaves?
Is it necessary that we should suffer, groan, and perish,
in order to render him happy ? No — it is on our own ac-
count alone, that He punisheth and chastiseth us ; His
tenderness suffers, as I may say, for our evils ; but^ as
OA* AFFLICTIONS^ 361
Ills love is a just and enlightened love, He preferrethto
leave us to suffer^ because He foresees, that, in termina-
ting our pains He would augment our wretchedness.
He is, says an holy father,* like a tender physician,
who pities, it is true, the cries and the sufiPerings of his
patient ; but who, in spite of his cries, cuts even to the
quick, the corrupted part of his wound : He is never
more gentle and more compassionate, tlian when He ap-
pears most severe ; and affiictions must indeed be useful
and necessary to us, since a God so merciful and so good,
can prevail upon himself to afflict us.
It is written, that Joseph, when exalted to the first of-
fices in Egypt, could hardly retain his tears, and felt his
bowels yearn towards his brethren, at the very moment
that he aflfected to speak most harshly to them, and that
he feigned not to know them. It is in this manner that
Jesus Christ chastiseth us. He affects, if it be permit^
ted to speak in this manner, not to acknowledge in us
his co-heirs and his brethren ; He strikes and treats us
harshly as strangers ; but his love suffers for this con-
straint ; he is unable long to maintain this chamcter of
severity, which is so foreign to him : his favours soon
follow to soften his blows : he soon shows himself such
as he is ; and his love never fails to betray these ap»
pearances of rigour and anger : judge then, if tlie blows
%vhich come from so kind and so friendly a hand can
be otherwise than proportioned to our weakness.
Let us accuse, then, only the corruption, and not the
weakness of our heart, for our impatience and murmur^.
Have not weak young women ibrriu'rly defied all the
barbarity of tyrants? Have not children, before they
* St. Aiio-ustjn.
Vol. T. 44-
had learned to support even the ordinary toils of life;
run with joy to brave all the rigours of the most fright-
ful death ? Have not old men, already sinking under
the weight of their own body/ felt, like the eagle, their
youth renewed amid the torments of a long martyrdom ;
You say you are weak : But it is that very weakness
which is glorious to faith and to the religion of Jesus
Christ ; it is even on that account that the Lord hath
chosen you, to display in your own person how much
more powerful is grace than nature. If you were born
with more fortitude and strength, you w^ould do less hon-
our to the power of grace ; to man would be attributed
a patience, which should be the gift of God ; and the
weaker you are, the fitter instrument do you become for
the designs and for the glory of God. When his hand hath
been heavy, He hath chosen only the weak, that man
might attribute nothing to himself, and in order to over-
throw by the example of their constancy, the vain forti-
tude of sages and philosophers. His disciples were on-
ly as weak lambs, when He dispersed them through
the universe, and exposed them to the fury of the wolves.
The saints who have endured the troubles of this world,
have in all ages, rendered glory in their weakness to the
power of grace, and to the truth of his doctrine. They
are earthen vessels like those of Gideon, which the
Lord taketh delight in l)reaking, in order to make the
light and the power of faith shine forth in them witli
greater magnificence ; and, if you entered into the de-
signs of his wisdom and of his mercy, your weakness,
which in your opinion justifies your murmurs, would con-
stitute the sweetest consolation of your sufferings.
Lord ! would you say to him, 1 ask not that proud
reason, which seeks, in the glory of suffering with con
OJV AFFLICTIONS. 863
stancy, the whole consolation of its pains : I ask not
from thee that insensibility of heart, which either feels
Hot, or contemns its misfortunes. Leave m€, O Lord^
that weak and timid reason, that tender and feeling
heart, which seems so little fitted to sustain its tribula-
tions and sufferings ; and increase only thy consolations
and favours. The more I shall appear weak in the sight
of men, the greater wilt thou appear in my weakness ;
the more shall the children of the age admire the power
of faith, which alone can exalt the weakest and most
timid souls to that point of constancy and firmness,
to v/hich philosophy hath never yet been able to at-
tain.
The first pretext founded on the weakness of man be-
ing thus confuted, we have now to expose the illusion of
the second, which is founded on the excess, ot* the na»
ture of the afflictions themselves.
Part II. Nothing is more usual with persons afflic^
by God, than to justify their complaints and their mur-
murs by the excess, or the nature of their afflictions.
We are always wishing our crosses to bear no resera»
blance to those of others ; and, lest the example of their
fortitude and of their faith should condemn us, we make
a distinction in our troubles, in order to justify the dif-
ference in our dispositions and conduct. We persuade
ourselves that we could bear with resignation, crosses of
any other description ; but that those with which we are
overwhelmed by the Lord, are of such a nature as to
preclude consolation : that the more we examine the lot
of others, the more do we find our own misfortune sin-
gular, and our situation unexampled ; and, that it is im-
possible to preserve patience and serenity in a state.
364) SEHMojv XII.
where chance seems to have collected for us alone a
thousand afflicting circumstances^ which had never be-^
fore happened to others.
But, to take from self-love a defence so weak and so
unworthy of faith, 1 would have only to answer you,
that the more extraordinary our afflictions appear, the
less ought we to believe them the effects of chance : the
more evidently ought we to see in tbem^ the secret and
inscrutable arrangements of a God singularly watchful
over our destiny ; the more should we presume that, un-
der events so new, He doubtless concealeth new views,
and peculiar designs of mercy upon our soul ; the more
should we say to ourselves, that He consequently mean-
eth us not to perish with the reprobate multitude, see-
ing that He leadeth us by ways so uncommon and so
little trodden. This singularity of misfortune ought, in
the eyes of our faith, to be a soothing distinction : he
liath always conducted his chosen, in matters of afflic-
tion, as well as in other things, by new and extraordi-
nary ways. What melancholy and surprising adventures
do we not find in the life of a Noah, a Lot, a Joseph,
a Moses, and a Job ? Trace, from age to age, the histo-
ry of the just, and you will always find in their various
vicissitudes, something singular and incredible, which
has staggered even the belief of subsequent ages. Thus,
the less your afflictions resemble those of others, the
more should you consider them as the afflictions of God's
chosen : they arc stamped with the mark of the just :
they enter into that tradition of singular calamities,
which, from the beginning of ages, forms their history.
Battles lost, when victory seemed certain ; cities looked
upon as impregnable, fallen at the mere approach of the
enemy ; a kingdom, once the most flourishing in Eu-
OJV AFFLICTION'S ^85
ïope, stricken with every evil which the Lord in his
wrath can prur out upon the people ; the court filled
with mourning, and the royal race almost extinct : such,
Sire, is what the Lord in his mercy reserved for your
piety; and such are the unprecedented misfortunes
which he has prepared for you, in order to purify the
prosperities of a reign, the most brilliant in our annals.*
Tlie singularity of the unfortunate events with which
God afflicteth you, is intended for the sole purpose of
rendering you equally pious as a Christian, as you have
been great as a King. It would seem, that every thing
was to be singular in your reign ; prosperities, as well as
misfortunes ; in order that nothing should be wanting to
your glory before men and to your piety before God,
It is a striking example, prepared by his goodness^ for
our age.
And behold, my dear hearer, a signal example, both
to instruct and silence you, when you complain of the
excess of your misfortunes and of your sufferings. The
more God afflicteth, the greater is his Jove and his
watchfulness over you. More common misfortunes
might have appeared to you as the consequences merely
of natural causes : and though all events are conducted
by the secret springs of his Providence, you might per-
haps have had room to suppose, that the Lord had no
particular designs upon you, in providing for you only
certain afflictions, which happen every day to the rest of
men. But, in the grievous and singular situation in
which he placeth you, you can no longer hide from your-
* The preacher here alludes to the victories of Eugene and
Marlborough, and the death of several of the descendants of Louis
XIV, (in whose presence this sermon was delivered,) which e-
vents occiirred almost at the same period of time. (1711, 13,)
366 SERMOJ^' XIL
self^ that his attention is fixed on you alone, and that
you are the special object of his merciful designs.
Now, what can there be more consoling in our suffer-
ings ? God seeth me 5 He numbcreth my sighs ; He
weigheth mine afflictions ; He beholdeth my tears to
flow ; He maketh them subservient to mine eternal sanc-
tification. Since his hand hath weighed so heavily,
and in so remarkable a manner upon me, and since no
earthly resource seems now to be left me, I consider
myself as having at last become an object more worthy
of His cares and regard. Ah ! If 1 still enjoyed a se-
rené and happy situation, his eyes would no longer be
upon me ; He would neglect me, and I should be blen-=
ded in his sight with so many otliers, who are the pros-
perous of the earth. Blessed sufferings, which in depri-
ving me of all human aid, restore to me my God, and
render him mine only resource in all my sorrows ! Preci-
ous afflictions ! which, in turning me aside from all crea-
tures, are the cause that I now become the continual
object of the remembrance and of the mercies of my
Lord.
I might reply to you, in the second place, that com^
mon and momentary afflictions would have roused our
faith but for an instant. We should soon have found,
in every thing around us, a thousand resources to oblit-
erate the remembrance of that slight misfortune. Plea-
sures, human consolation, the new events which the
world is continually offering to our sight, would soon
liave beguiled our sorrow, and restored our relish for
the world and for its vain amusements ; and our heart,
always in concert with the objects which flatter it, would
soon have been weary of its sighs and of its sorrow. But
the Lord, in sending afflictions in which religion alone
Ojsr ^FFLICTIOJYS. 36?
can become our resource, hath meant to preclude all re-
turn towards the world, and to place between us and
our weakness a barrier which can never be shaken ei-
ther by time or accident; He hath anticipated our incon-
stancy, in rendering precautions necessary to us, which
might not perhaps have always appeared equally useful.
He has read in the character of our heart, that our fideL
ity in flying the dangers of, and separating ourselves
from the world, would not extend beyond our sorrow ;
that the same moment which beheld us consoled would
witness our change ; that, in forgetting our chagrins, we
would soon have forgotten our pious resolutions ; and
that short-lived afflictions would have made us only
transiently righteous. He hath, therefore, established
the continuance of our piety upon that of our suflTerings ;
he hath ordained fixed and constant afflictions, as sure-
ties for the constancy of our faith ; and lest, in leaving
our soul in our power, we should again restore it to the
world, he hath resolved to render it safe, by attaching it
for ever to the foot of the cross. We are thoroughly sen-
sible ourselves that a great blow was required to rouse
us from our lethargy ; that we had been little benefited
by the slight afflictions with which the Lord hath hitherto
been pleased to visit us ; and that scarcely had he strick-
en us, when we had forgotten the hand that had inflicted
so salutary a wound. Of what then, O my God, should
I complain ? That excess which I find in my troubles,
is an excess of Thy mercies I do not consider that the
less thou sparest the patient, the more thou hasteneth
his cure, and that all the utility and all the security of
our suffernigs consist in the rigour of thy blows. My
sweetest consolation in the afflicted state in which thy
providence, O Lord, hath been pleased to place me^
368 SERMO^r xiL
shall then be in future, to reflect, that at least thou spa-
rest me not ; that thou measurest thy rigours and thy
remedies by my wants, and not by my desires ; and that
thou hast more regard to the security of my salvation
tJian to the injustice of my complaints.
1 might again reply to you : Enter into computation
with the Lord, if you complain of the excess of your
sufferings ; place in a balance, on the one side your
crimes, and on the other your afflictions ; measure the
rigour of his cliastisements by the enormity of your of-
fences ; compare that which you suffer with that which
you ought to suffer ; see if your afflictions go the same
length as your senseless pleasures have done; if the
keenness and the continuance of your sorrows corres-
pond with those of your prophane debaucheries ; if the
state of restraint in which you live equals the licentious-
ness and the depravity of your former manners ; and
should your afflictions be found to overbalance your in-
iquities, then boldly reproach the Lord for his injustice.
You judge of your sufferings by your inclinations, but
you ought to judge of them by your crimes. W hat ?
there is not perhaps a single moment of your worldly
life for which you do not deserve an eternal misery, and
yet you murmur against the goodness of a God who com-
muteth these everlasting torments, so often merited, into
a few rapid and momentary afflictions, against which
the consolations of faith hold out so many resources !
What injustice ! what ingratitude ! Ah ! beware, un-
faithful soul, lest the Lord listen to thee in his wrath ;
beware, lest He punish thy passions, by providing for
thee, here below, whatever is favourable to them ; lest
thou be not found worthy in his sight of these temporal
afflictions ; lest he reserve thee for the time of his justice
OJV AFFLICTION'S. 369
and of his vengeance, and treat thee like those unfortu-
nate victims who are ornamented with flowers, who are
nursed and fattened with so much care, only because
they are destined for the sacrifice ; and the knife which
is to stab, and the pile which is to consume them, are in
readiness upon the altar. He is terrible in his gifts as
in his wrath ; and seeing that guilt must be punished
either with lleeting punishments here below, or with
eternal pains after this life, nothing ought to appear
more fearful in the eyes of faith, than to be a sinner and
yet prosperous on the earth.
Great God ! let this world then be the scene of thy
vengeance ; and since my crimes cannot go unpunished,
hasten, O Lord, to satisfy thy justice. The more I am
spared here, the more wilt thou appear to me as a terri-
ble God, who refuseth to let some fleeting afflictions ab-
solve me, and whose wrath can be appeased by nothing
but mine eternal misery. Lend not thine ear to the
cries of my grief, nor to the lamentations of a corrupt
heart, which knows not its true interests. 1 disown,
Lord, these human sighs which the sadness of my state
still continually forces from me ; these carnal tears
which affliction so often maketh me shed in thy pre=
sence. Listen not to the intreaties which I have hither-
to made to obtain an end to my sufferings ; complete
rather thy vengeance upon me here below ; reserve no-
thing for that dreadful eternity, where thy chastisements
shall be without end, and without measure. I ask thee
only to sustain my weakness ; and in shedding sor-
rows upon my life, shed likewise upon it thy grace
which consoles, and recompenses with such interest, an
afflicted heart.
To all these truths, so consoling for an afflicted soul.
Vol. I. 45
870 ^ ^ a *w o jy XII.
I might still add, that our sufferings appear excessive
only through the excess of the corruption of our heart ;
that tlie keenness of our afflictions springs solely from
that of our passions; that it is the impropriety of our
attachment to the objects lost, which renders their loss
so grievous ; that we are keenly afflicted only when we
have been keenly attached ; and that the excess of our
affliction is always the punishment of the excess of our
iniquitous love. I might add, that we always magnify
w hatever regards ourselves ; that the very idea of sin-
gularity in our misfortunes, flatters our vanity, at the
same time that it authorises our murmurs; that we never
wish to resemble others ; that w^e feel a secret pleasure
in persuading ourselves that we are distinguished from
the rest of our species, and we w ish all the world to be
occupied with our grievances alone, as if we were the on-
ly unfortunate of the earth. Yes, my brethren, the evils
of otiiers are nothing in our eyes : we see not that all
around us are, perhaps, more unhappy than we; that
we have a thousand resources in our afflictions, which
are denied to others ; tbat we derive a thousand conso-
lations in our infirmities, from wealth, and the number
of persons watchful over our smallest w ants ; that, in
the loss of a person dear to us, a thousand means of sof-
tening its bitterness still rémain from the situation in
which Providence hath placed us ; that, m domestic
divisions, we find comforts in the tenderness and in the
confidence of our friends, w hich we had been unable to
procure among our relatives ; lastly, that we find a thou-
sand human indemnifications to our misfortunes, and
that, were we to place as in a balance, on the one side
our consolations, and on the other our sufferings, we
should find, that there are still remaining in our state
O.Y .AFFLICTIOKS. 371
more comforts, capable of corrupting us, than crosses
calculated to sanctify us. .
Thus, we almost universally find, that it is the great
and the prosperous alone, who complain of the excess
of their misfortunes and sujfferings. The unfortunate
beings, who are born to, and live in penury and dis-
tress, pass their wretched days in silence, and almost in
a forgetfulness of their sufferings : the smallest gleam
of comfort and ease restores serenity and cheerfulness to
their heart: the slightest consolations obliterate their
troubles : a moment of pleasure makes up for a whole
year of suffering ; w^liile the fortunate and sensual, a-
midst all their abundance, consider, as an unheard of
misfortune, the disappointment of a single desire ; we
view them turning into a martyrdom for themselves, the
w^eariness and even the satiety of pleasures ; drawing
from imaginary evils the source of a thousand real vex-
ations ; feeling tenfold more anguish for the failure of a
single acquisition, than pleasure in the possession of all
they enjoy; in a word, considering, as the greatest of
misfortunes, the least intermption, however trifling, to
their sensual happiness.
Yes, my brethren, it is the great and powerful alone
who complain ; who continually imagine themselves the
only unhappy ; who never have enough of comforters ;
whOj on the slightest reverse, see assembled around
them, not only those worldly friends whom their rank
and fortune procure, but likewise all the pious and en-^
lightened ministers of the gospel, distinguished by the
public esteem, and whose holy instructions would, in
general, be much better bestowed, on so many other un
fortunate individuals, who are destitute of every worlds
ly resource and reliçloiis assistance, and to wiiom they
would also be so much more beneficial. But, before
the tribunal of Jesus Christ, your afflictions shall be
weighed with those of the many unfortunate fellow-crea-
tures who surround you, and whose misfortunes are so
much the more dreadful, as they are more hidden and
more neglected ; it will then be demanded of you, if it
belonged to you to complain and to murmur : it will be
asked, if you were entitled to lay such stress upon ca-
lamities, which would have been sources of consolation
to so many others : if it was your business to murmur
so highly against a God, who treated you with so much
indulgence, while his hand was so heavy on such an in-
finity of unhappy fellow -creatures : if they had less right
to the riches, and to the pleasures of the earth, than you :
if their souls were no less noble, and less precious be-
fore God than yours ; in a word, if they were either
more criminal, or of another nature than you.
Alas ! It is not only our own self-love, but it is like-
wise our hardness of heart towards our brethren, which
magnifies to us our own misfortunes. Let us enter those
poor and unprovided dwellings, where shame conceals
such bitter and affecting poverty ; let us take a look at
those asylums of public compassion, where every calam=
ity seems to reign : it is there that we shall learn to ap-
preciate our own afflictions : it is there that, touched to
the heart with so many excessive calamities, we shall
blush even to give a name to our own trifling evils : it
is there that our murmurs against Heaven shall be
changed into thanksgivings, and that, occupied less with
the slight crosses, sent us by the Lord, than with so ma-
ny others from which He spareth us, we shall begin to
dread his indulgence, instead of complaining of his se-
%erity. My God ! Jiow awful shall be the judgment of
OJV AFFLICTION'S. 373
the. great and the mighty, since, besides the inevitable
abuse of their prosperity, the afflictions, which ought to
have sanctified its use, and expiated its abuses, shall be-
come themselves their greatest crimes !
But how employ afflictions in sanctifying the dangers
of our station, or in working out salvation, since they
seem to cast such invincible obstacles in our wav? This
is the last pretext drawn from the incompatibility of af-
flictions with our salvation.
Part III. It is a very surprising circumstance, that
the corruption of the human heart should find, even in
sufferings, obstacles to salvation ; and that Christians
should continually justify their murmurs against the
wisdom and goodness of God, by accusing Him of send-
ing crosses incompatible with their eternal salvation.
Nothing is more common, however, in the world, than
this iniquitous language ; and when w^e exhort the souls
afflicted by God to convert these fleeting sorrows into
the price of heaven and of eternity, they reply, that, in
this state of distress, they are incapable of every thing ;
that the obstacles and vexations which they are contin-
ually encountering, far from recalling them to order and
to duty, serve only to irritate the mind, and to harden
the heart ; and that tranquillity must be restored before
they can turn their thoughts towards God.
Now, I say, that, of all the pretexts employed in jus-
tification of the unchristian use made of afflictions, this
is the most absurd and the most culpable. The most
culpable, for it is blaspheming Providence to pretend,
that it places you in situations incompatible with your
salvation. Whatever it doth or permitteth here below,
it only doth or permitteth in order to facilitate to man the
374 ^ERMO^^ XIL
ways of eternal life ; every event, prosperous or unprog-
peroQS, which fills up the course of our destiny, is in-
tended as a means of salvation, and of sanctification ;
all its designs upon us tend to that purpose alone; what
ever we are, even in the order of nature, our birth, our
fortune, our talents, our age, our dignities, our protectors,
our subjects, our masters ; all these, in its views of mer-
cy upon us, enter into the impenetrable designs of our
eternal sanctification. All this visible world itself, is
made only for the age to come ; whatever passeth away
hath its secret connections with that eternal age, where
things shall for ever endure ; whatever we see, is only
the image and hope of the invisible hereafter. The
world is worthy of the cares of a wise and merciful God,
only inasmuch as, by secret and adorable relations, its
various revolutions are to form tliat heavenly church,
that immortal assembly of chosen, where He shall be
for ever glorified. To pretend, then, that He placeth
us in situations, which not only have no relation to, but
are even incompatible with our eternal interests, is to
make a temporal God of him, and to blaspheme his a-
dorable wisdom.
But, not only is nothing more culpable than this pre-
text, I say likewise, that nothing is more foolish : for,
it is only by detaching itself from this miserable world,
that a soul returns to God ; and nothing, says St. Au-
gustin, so efifectually withdraws us from this miserable
world, as when the Lord sheddeth salutary sorrows over
its dangerous pleasures. " Lord,'^ said an holy king
of Judah, "- I had neglected Thee in prosperity and in
abundance ; the pleasures of royalty, and the splen-
dour of a long and glorious reign, had corrupted my
heart ; the flatteries and the deceitful words of the
OJV- AFFLICTIOJVS. 37j
^vicked, had lulled me into a profound and a fatal
sleep ; but Thiue hand hath been upon me, in pouring
out upon my people all the scourges of Thy wrath, in
raising up against me mine own children and subjects,
whom I had loaded with favours ; I have awaken from
my sleep : Tliou hast humbled me, and I have had re-
course to Thee : Thou hast afflicted me, and I have
sought Thee, and I have found out that I ought not to put
my trust in men ; that prosperity is a dream, and glory a
delusion ; tiiat the talents which men admire, were, a-
las ! only vices concealed under the brilliant exteriour
of human virtues ; the whole world a deception, which
feeds us with only vain phantoms, and leaves nothing so-
lid in the heart ; and that Thou alone art worthy to be
served, for Thou alone forsakest not those who serve
Thee.'^
Such is the most natural effect of afflictions : they fa-
cilitate all the duties of religion ; they cause a hatred of
the world in rendering it more disagreeable to us ; an
indifference towards all created beings, by giving us ex-
perience, either of their perfidy by infidelities, or of their
frailty by unexpected losses ; a privation of pleasures,
by placing obstacles in their way ; and the desire of e-
ternal riclies, and consoling returns towards God, by
leaving us lit le consolation among men ; lastly, all the
obligations of faith become more easy to the afflicted
Christian : his good desires find fewer obstacles, his
weakness fewer dangers, his faith more assistance, his
lukewarmness more resources, his passions more checks,
and even his virtue more meritorious opportunities.
Thus the church w as never more fervent and pure
than when she was afflicted ; the periods of her suffer-
ings and persecutions w^ere the periods of her splendour
376 JSEHMOJ^ XIL
and of her zeal. Tranquility afterwards corrupted her
manners ; her days became less pure and less innocent
as soon as they became more fortunate and powerful ;
her glory ended almost with her misfortunes ; and her
peace, as the prophet said, was more bitter, through the
licentiousness of her children, than even her troubles
had ever been through the barbarity of her enemies.
Eà\^\\ yon, who complain that the crosses with which
the Lord afflicteth, discourage you, and check any desire
of labouring towards your salvation ; you well know,
that happier days have not made you more holy or more
faithful ; yoa well know, that then, intoxicated with the
world and its pleasures, you lived in a total neglect of
your God, and that the comforts of your situation were
only incitements to your corruption, and the instruments
of your iniquitous desires.
But such is the perpetual illusion of our self-love.
When fortunate ; when every thing answers our wish-
es, and the world smiles upon us ; we then allege the
dangers of our situation in order to justify the corrupt
state of our morals : we say that it is very difficult, at a
certain age and in a certain situation, where rank is to
be supported, and appearances to be kept up with the
world ; to condemn ourselves to solitude, to prayer, to
flight from pleasures, and to all the duties of a gloomy
and a Christian life. But, on the other hand, when un-
der affliction ; when the body is struck with lassitude^
and fortune forsakes us ; when our friends deceive, and
our masters neglect us ; when our enemies overpower,
and our relations become our persecutors ; we complain
that every thing estranges us from God in this state of
bitterness and sorrow ; that the mind is not sufficiently
tranquil to devote any thoughts to salvation ; that the
oj\r AFFLicTiQj^rs. 377
heart is too exasperated to feel any thing but its own
misfortunes ; that amusements and pleasures, now be-
come necessary, must be souglit for to lull its grief and
to prevent the total loss of reason, by our giving way to
all the horrors of a profound melancholy. It is thus, O
my God ! that by our eternal contradictions, we justify
the adorable ways of thy wisdom upon the destiny of
men, and that we provide for thy justice powerful rea-
sons, to overthrow, one day, the illusion and falsity of
our pretexts.
For besides, let our sufferings be what they may, the
history of religion holds out righteous characters to our
example, who, in the same situation with ourselves,
have held their soul in patience, and turned their afflic-
tions into a source of salvation. Do you weep the loss
of a person dear to your heart ? Judith, in a similar af-
fliction, found her piety and faith increase, and changed
the tears of widowhood into those of retirement and pen-
itence. If declining health render life more gloomy and
bitter than even death itself, like Job, you may find in
the wrecks of an ulcerated body, motives of compunc-
tion, longings for eternity, and the hopes of an immor-
tal resurrection. If your character in the world be stain-
ed by calumnies, like Susanna, you may possess an un-
shaken soul under the darkest aspersions; and knowing
that you have the Lord as the witness of your innocence,
you may leave to him the care of avenging you upon
the injustice of men. If your fortune be tlie victim of
treachery, you may, like the dethroned David, con? ider
the humiliation of your new state, as the just punishment
of the abuse made of your past prosperity. If an un-
fortunate union become the source of daily mortification,
remember that Esther found, in the caprice and frenzy
Vol, T. *6
of a faithless husband, the proof of her virtue, and thfe
merit of her meekness and patience. In a word, place
yourself in the most dismal situation, and you will find
the righteous, who have wrought out their salvation in
the same^; and without applying to former ages for ex-
amples, look around, (for the hand of the Lord is not
yet shortened,) and you will see beings, loaded with the
same crosses as you, make a very different use of them,
and find means of salvation in the very same events,
where you find only a source of danger to your inno-
cence, or a pretext for your murmurs. But not merely
this ; you will see those whom the mercy of God hath
recalled from their errors, by pouring out salutary sor-
rows upon their life, overturning a well established for-
tune, destroying an envied favour, sapping an health ap-
parently unalterable, or terminating a profane connec-
tion through a glaring inconstancy. You yourself, then,
a witness of their change and of their conversion, have
lessened the merit of it, by alluding to the facilities pro-
vided by chagrin and afflictions ; you have placed little
confidence in a virtue which misfortunes had rendered
as it were necessary ; you have said that it required lit-
tle exertion to forsake a world which was become tired
of us, that at the first gleam of good fortune, pleasures
would soon be seen to succeed all this great show of de-
votion, and that they had devoted themselves to God,
only, because they had nothing better to do. Unjust
that you are ! and yet, when you are asked to return to
him in your affliction, you say that it is not possible,
that an heart pressed and bow ed down with sorrow is
incapable of paying attention to any thing but its grief,
and that we are more hardened than touched in this
state of distress and misfortune ; and after having cast
O^V AFFLICTIOJ^S. 379
a siaiu upon the piety of afflicted souls, as if they had
adopted a measure of great ease, and one to which little
merit is attached, as it required little exertion, you ex-
cuse yourself from adopting it in your own affliction,
and from making a Cliristian use of it, because you pre-
tend that it is not possible at that period to pay atten>
tion to any thing but to your sorrow. Answer, or ra-
ther tremble, lest you find a source of danger to your
salvation in a situation which ought to be its surest re-
source. After having abused prosperity, tremble lest
you now make your misfortunes the fatal instruments of
your destruction, and lest you shut upon yourself the
gates of goodness, which Grod might open, in order to
recall you to him.
When, O my God ! will the time come in which my
soul, exalting itself through faith, above all creatures,
shall no longer worship but Thee in them ; shall no
longer attribute events to them of which Thou alone art
the author ; shall recognise, in the various situations in
which Thou placest it, the adorable dispensations of
Thy providence ; and taste amid all its crosses, that un-
alterable peace which the world, with all its pleasures,
can never bestow ?
How melancholy, indeed, my bretlu^en, when visited
and afflicted of God, to seek for consolation in raising
ourselves up against the hand which strikes us ; in mur=
muring against his justice ; in casting ourselves off from
kim in a frenzy as it were, of rage, despair, and revenge,
in order ta seek consolation in our own madness Î
"What a deplorable situation is that of the being whom
God afflicteth, and who for consolation flies in the face
ef his God, seeks to ease his troubles, in multiplying his
trespasses, yields himself up to debauchery, in order to
380 ' SERMOJ^ XII.
drown his sorrows, and makes the overwhelming sad-
ness of guiltj an horrible resource against the sadness of
afflictions !
iS'o ! my brethren, religion alone can truly console us
in our misfortunes. Philosophy checked complaint ; but
it did not soften the anguish of grief. The world may
lull cares, but it does not cure them ; and amid all its
senseless pleasures, the secret sting of sadness always
remains in the heart. God alone can comfort our afflic-
tions ; can another, therefore, be necessary to a faithful
soul ? Weak beings ! You may easily, by vain speech-
es, and by the customary language of compassion and
tenderness, make yourselves understood by the ears of
the flesh ; but there is none but the God of all consola-
tion who can speak to the heart. In the words of the
Psalmist you may say. ' Reproach hath broken my
^ heart; and I am full of heaviness : and I looked for
' some to take pity, but there was none 5 and for com-
• forters but I found none.'
Great God! At Thy feet will I, henceforth pour out all
the bitterness of mine heart : with Thee alone will I
forget all my grievances, all my sufferings, all created
beings. Hitherto I have given way to chagrin and to
the sadness of this world ; a thousand times have I
•wished that Thy wisdom were regulated by the mad
projects of my heart ; my thoughts have wandered ; my
mind hath formed a thousand delusive dreams; my
heart hath pursued these vain phantoms : I have longed
for an higher birth, more fortune, talents, fame, and
health : I have lulled myself with these ideas of an ima-
ginary happines. Fool, that I was! As if I were capable
of altering at my pleasure the immutable order of Thy
Providence ! As if I had been wiser or more enlighten-
OJV AFFLICTIONS. 381
ed than Thee, O God, upon my true interests ! I have
never penetrated into thine eternal designs upon me : I
have never considered the sorrows of my situation as
entering into the order of mine eternal destination ; and,
even to this day, my joys and my sorrows have depend-
ed upon earthly things alone : my joys have consequent-
ly never been tranquil, and my sorrows have always
been without resource. But henceforth, O my God! Tiiou
shalt be mine only comforter : and I will seek in the
meditation of Thy holy law, and in submission to Thine
eternal decrees, those solid consolations which I have
never found in the world, and which, in softening our
afflictions hei^ below, secure to us, at the same time,
their immortal reward hereafter-
( ?8â )
SERMON XIIL
ON PRAYER
Matthew xv. 22.
Have mercy on me, 0 Lord^ thou Son of Dœvîd.
Such is the lamentation of a soul touched with its
wretchedness, and which, addresses itself to the sover-
eign physician, in whose compassion alone it hopes to
find relief. Such was the language of the woman of
Canaan, who wished to obtain from the Son of David
the recovery of her daughter. Persuaded of his power,
and expecting every thing from his known goodness to
the unfortunate, she knew no surer way of rendering
him propitious, than the cry of affliction, and the simple
tale of misfortune. This therefore is the model which
the Church holds out to us on this occasion, in order to
animate and to instruct us how to pray ; that is to say,
in order to render more pleasing, and more familiar to
us, this most essential duty of Christian piety.
OJ^ PRAYER, 38â
For, my brethren, prayer is the proper state of man ;
It is the first duty of man; it is the only resource of
man ; it is the whole consolation of man ; and, to speak
in the language of the Holy Spirit, it is the whole
man.
Yes, my friends, if the world, in the midst of which
we live, be but one continued scene of temptation ; if all
the situations in which we may be, and all the objects
which environ us, seem united with our corruption, for
the purpose of either weakening or seducing us; if rich-
es corrupt, poverty exasperate, prosperity exalt and af-
fliction depress us ; if business prey upon, and ease ren-
der us effeminate ; if the sciences inflate, and ignorance
bad us into error ; if society engage us too much, and
solitude leave us too much to ourselves ; if pleasures se-
duce, and pious works excite our pride ; if health arouse
the passions, and sickness nourish either lukewarmness
or murmurings ; in a word, if, since the fall of nature,
every thing in, or around us, be a source of danger ;
in a situation so deplorable, what hope of salvation, O
my God ! could there be still remaining to man, if, from
the depth of his wretchedness, he did not cause his la-
mentations continually to ascend towards the throne of
thy mercy, in order that thou thyself may come to his
aid, to put a check upon his passions, to clear up his er-
rors, to sustain his weakness, to lesson his temptations,
to abridge his hours of trial, and to save him from his
backslidings ?
The Christian is therefore a man of prayer ; his ori-
gin, his situation, his nature, his wants, his place of a-^
bode, all inform him that prayer is necessary. The
church herself, in which he is incorporated through the
grace of regeneration, a stranger here below, is always
384i hermojX xîil
full of prayer and lamentation ; she recognizes her chiU
dren, only through the sighs which they direct towards
their country ; and the Christian who does not pray,
cuts himself off from the assembly of the holy, and is
worse than an unbeliever.
How comes it then, my brethren, that a duty not on-
ly so essential, but even so consolatory to man, is at
present so much neglected ? How comes it that it is con-
sidered either as a gloomy and tiresome duty, or as
appropriated only for retired souls ; insomuch, that our
instructions upon prayer scarcely interest those who lis-
ten to us, who seem as if persuaded that they are more
adapted to the cloister than to the court ?
Whence comes this abuse, and this universal neglect
of prayer in the world ? It arises from two pretexts,
which I now mean to overthrow : In the first place,
men do not pray, because they say they know not how
to pray, and that consequently it is lost time : 2(Z/y,
They do not pray, because they complain that the con-
sequence of prayer is a wandering of mind which
renders it insipid and disagreeable. The first pretext
therefore, which I am to combat, is drawn from their
ignorance of the manner in which they ought to pray.
The second is founded on the distaste they feel for,
and the difficulties they find in prayer. You must
be taught, therefore, in the first place how to pray,
since you know it not. And, secondly, the habit
of prayer must be rendered easy to you, since you
find it so troublesome and difficult.
Part I. *^ The commandments which I command
you, said formerly the Lord to his people, are neither
above your strength, nor the reach of your mind : they
OJV PRAYEn. 385
are not hidden from you, nor far off, that yon should
say, who shall go up for us to Heaven and bring them
unto us, that we may hear them and do them ? Nor
are they beyond the sea, that you should say, who shall
go over the sea for us and bring them unto us, that we
may hear them and do them ? But the word is very
nigh unto you, in your mouth, and in your heart, that
you may do it.''
Now, what the Lord hath said in general of all the
precepts of the law, that we have no occasion to seek
beyond ourselves for the knowledge of them, but that
they may be all accomplished in our heart and in our
mouth, may moro particularly be said of the precept of
prayer, which is as the first and most essential of all.
Nevertheless, men continually allege in opposition
to this duty, that, when they come to prayer, they know
not what to say to God, and that praying is a secret of
which they have never as yet been able to comprehend
any thing. I say, then, that this pretext springs from
three unrighteous dispositions : 1st. they are mistaken
in the idea whicli they form of prayer ; âdly, they are
not sufficiently sensible of their own wretchedness and
wants ; and 3dly, they do not love their God.
Isf, I say that they are mistaken in the idea which
ihey form of prayer. In effect, prayer is not an exer^
tion of the mind, an arrangement of ideas, or a profound
knowledge of the mysteries and counsels of God; it is
a simple emotion of the heart ; it is a lamentation of the
soul, deeply affected at the sight of its own wretched^
ness, a keen and inward feeling of our wants and of
our weakness, and an humble confidence which it lays
open to its Lord, in order to obtain relief and deliver-
ance from them. Prayer, supposes in him who prays.
Voi I. 47
3S6 SEEMOuY XIII
neither great lights, uiiconimon knowledge, nor a mind
more cultivated and exalted than that of the rest of
men ; it supposes only more faith, more contrition, and
a warmer desire of deliverance from its temptations and
from its wretchedness. Prayer is neither a secret nor a
science which we learn from men ; an art, or an un-
known method, upon which it is necessary to consult
skilful teachers, in order to be master of its rules and
precepts. The methods and maxims thereupon, preten-
ded to be laid down to us in our days, are either acts
of eccentricity which are not to be followed, or the vain
speculations of an idle mind, or the effects of fanaticism
which may stop at nothing, and which, far from edify-
ing the church, hath merited her censures, and hath fur-
nished, to the impious, matter of ridicule against her,
and to the world fresh pretexts of contempt for, and of
disgust with prayer. Prayer is a duty upon which we
are all born instructed : the rules of this divine science
are written in our beasts alone ; and the Spirit of God
is the only master to teach it.
An holy and innocent being, wbo is penetrated with
the greatness of God, struck with the terror of his judg-
ments, and touched with his infinite mercies, who knows
only how to humble himself before him, to acknow-
ledge, in the simplicity of his heart, his goodness and
wonders, to adore the orders of his providence upon him.
and to accept the crosses and afflictions imposed upon
him by the wisdom of his counsels ; who is acquainted
with no prayer more sublime than to be sensible before
God of all the corruption of his heart, to groan over his
own hardness of heart and opposition to all good, and to
entreat of him, with a fervent faith, to change him, to des-
troy in him that man of sin, which, in spite of his fijmesl;
OA'- FRAYEJÎ. §8f7
resolves, continually forces him to make so many false
steps in the ways of God : a being of this description
is a thousand times more instructed in the knowledge
of prayer than all the masters, and may say with the
prophet, ^' I iiave more understanding than " all my
teachers." He speaks to his God as a friend does
to a friend ; he is sorry for having offended him ;
he upbraids himself for not having as yet, sufficient
strength to renounce all to please him ; he takes no
pride in the sublimity of his thoughts ; he leaves his
heart to speak, and gives way to all its tenderness be^
fore the only object of his love. Even when his mind
wanders, his heart watches and speaks for him ; his
very sorrows become a cause of prayer, through the
feelings which are then excited in his heart ; he is ten»
derly affected, he sighs, he is displeased with, and a
burden to himself; he feels the weight of his bonds, he
exerts himself as if to break and throw them off; he a
thousand times renews his protestations of fidelity ; he
blushes and is ashamed at always promising, and yet
being continually faithless : such is the whole secret,
and the whole science of prayer. And what ia» there
in all this beyond the reach of every believing soul?
Who had instructed the poor woman of Canaan in
prayer? A stranger, and daughter of Tyre and Hidou,
unacquainted with the wonders of the law, and the ora-
cles of the prophets ; who had not yet heard from tlie
mouth of the Saviour the words of eternal life ; who was
still under the shadows of ignorance and of death ; she
however prays ; her love, her confidence, the desire of
being favourably heard, teach her to pray ; her heart be-
ing touched, constitutes the whole merit^ and the whole
sublimity of her prayer.
388 SLJiMOjV xiîi
And surely, if, in order to pray, it were requisite io
rise to those sublime states of prayer to which God ex^
alteth some holy souls ; if it were necessary to be wrapt
ill extacy, and transported even up to heaven, like Paul,
there to hear those ineffable secrets which God exposeth
not to man, and which it is not permitted, even to man
himself, to reveal ; or, like Moses upon the holy moun-
tain, to be placed upon a cloud of glory, and to see God,
face to face : that is to say, if it were necessary to have
attained to that degree of intimate union with the Lord,
in w hich the soul, as if already freed from its body,
springs up even into the bosom of its God; contemplates
at leisure his infinite perfections ; forgets, as I may say,
its members which are still upon the earth ; is no longer
disturbed, nor even diverted by the phantoms of the
senses ; is fixed, and as it were absorbed in the contem-
plation of the w onders and the gi'andeur of God ; and,
already participating in his eternity, could count a whole
age passed in that blessed state, as only a short and rap-
id moment ; if, I say, it were necessary, in order to pray,
to be favoured with these rare and excellent gifts of the
Holy Spirit, you might say, like those new believers of
whom St. Paul makes mention, that you have not yet
received them, and that you know not even the nature
of that Spirit which communicates them.
But prayer is not a special gift set apart for privileged
souls alone ; it is a common duty imposed upon every
believer ; it is not merely a virtue of perfection, reserved
for certain purer and more holy souls ; it is, like chari-
ty, an indispensable virtue, requisite to the perfect as to
the imperfect; wiiliin the capacity of the illiterate equal-
ly as of the learned; commanded to the simple as to the
most enlisihtened ; it is the virtue of all men ; it is the
O.V PRAYER. ^89
science of ecery believer ; it is the perfection of every
creature. Wlioever has a heart, and is capable of lov-
ing the Author of his being ; whoever has a reason ca-
pable of knowing the nothingness of the creature and
the greatness of God, must know how to adore, to re-
turn him thanks, and to have recourse to him ; to ap-
pease him when offended ; to call upon him when turn»
ed away ; to thank him when favoural)le ; to bumble
himself when He afflicts ; to lay his wants before him^
or to entreat his countenance and protection.
Thus, when the disciples ask of Jesus Christ to teach
them to pray. He doth not unfold to thorn the height, the
sublimity, the depth of the mysteries of God ; He mere-
ly informs them, that, in order to pray, it is necessary
to consider God as a tender, bountiful, and careful fa
ther ; to address themselves to him with a respectful fa-
miliarity, and with a confidence blended with fear and
love ; to speak to Him the language of our weakness
and of our wretchedness ; to borrow no expressions but
from our heart ; to make no attempt to rise to Him, but
rather to draw Him nearer to us ; to lay our wants be-
fore Him, and to implore his aid ; to wish that all men
should bless and worship him, that his reign he esta
blished in all hearts ; that his will be done, on earth as
in heaven ; that sinners may return to the paths of right-
eousness ; that believers may attain to the knowledge of
the truth ; that He Ibrgive us our sins ; that He preserve
us from temptations ; that He assist our weakness : and
that He deliver us from oar miseries. Every tiling is
simple, but every thing is great in this divine prayer ; it
recalls man to himself, and, in order to adopt it as a
model, nothing more is required than to fepl (mv wnnts,
and to wish deliverance from them.
390 ^ESMOJ^' XllL
I have said in the next place, tliat the pretext of not
knowing how to pray, arises from not beifig sufficiently
acquainted with the wants of the soul. For, I ask you^
my brethren, is it necessary to teach a sick person to
entreat relief, a man pressed with hunger to solicit food,
or an unfortunate being overwhelmed by the tempest,
and on the point of perishing, to implore assistance ?
Alas ! does not the urgent necessity of itself amply fur-
nish expressions ? In the sense of our evils alone do we
not find that animated eloquence, those persuasive emo*.
tions, and those pressing remonstrances which solicit
their cure ? Has a suffering heart occasion for any mas-
ter to teach it to complain ? Every thing in it speaks^
every thing expresses its affliction, every thing announ-
ces its sufferings, and every thing solicits relief; even
its silence is eloquent.
You yourself, who complain that you know not what >
method to take in praying ; in your temporal afflictions,
from the instant that a dangerous malady threatens your
life, that an unlooked-for event endangers your property
and fortune, that an approaching death is on the ponit
of snatcliing from you a person either dear or necessary;
you raise your hands to heaven ; you send up your la-
mentations and prayers ; you address yourself to the
God who strikes and who relieves ; you know then how
to pray ; you have no need of going beyond your own
heart for lessons and rules to lay your afflictions before
him, nor do you consult able teachers in order to know
what is necessary to say to him ; you have occasion for
nothing but your grief, your evils alone have found out
the method of instructing you.
Ah ! my brethren, if we felt the wants of our soul as
we feel those of our body ; if we felt as much interest
OJV PRAYER. 391
for our eternal salvation as for a fortune of tlirt, or for a
weak and perishable health, we would soon be skilful
in the divine art of prayer ; we would not complain that
we had nothing to say in the presence of a God of whom
we have so much to ask ; the mind would feel little dif-
ficulty in finding subjects of conversation with Him ;
our evils alone would speak ; in spite of ourselves, our
heart Avould burst forth in holy eifusions, like that of
SamuePs mother before the ark of the Lord ; we would
no longer be master of our sorrows and tears; and the
most certain mark of our want of faith, and that we know
ourselves not, is that of not knowing what to say to the
Lord in the space of a short prayer.
And, after all^ is it possible that, in the miserable con»
dition of this human life, surrounded as we are with so
many dangers ; made up ourselves of so many weak-
nesses ; on the pointy every moment, of being led astray
by the objects of vanity; corrupted by the illusions of the
senses, and dragged away by the force of example ; a
prey to the tyranny of our inclinations, to the dominion
of our flesh, to the inconstancy of our heart, to the ine-
qualities of our reason, to the caprices of our imagina-
tion, to the eternal variations of our temper ; depressed
by the loss of favour, elated by prosperity, enervated by
abundance, soured by poverty, led away by custom, dis-
turbed by accidents, flattered by praise, irritated by con»
tempt ; continually wavering between our passions and
our duties, between ourselves and the law of God ; is it
possible, I say, that in a situation so deplorable, we can
be ignorant what to ask of the Lord, or what to say to
him, when we appear in his presence? 0 my God !
why then is man not less miserable ? Or why is he not
better acquainted with his wants ?
39^ ^ihJtMOJK' JlIIL
Ah ! my deaf hearer, were you to say that you know
not w Itère to bcgia in prayer ; that your wants are so in-
finite, your miseries and your passions so multiplied,
that, were you to pretend to expose thera all to the Lord,
you would never have done : were you to say, that the
more you search into your heart, the more your wounds
are made manifest, the more corruption and disorders do
you discover in yourself, and that, despairing of being
able to relate to the Lord the endless detail of your
weaknesses, you present your heart wholly to him, you
leave your evils to speak for you, you ground your
whole art of prayer on your confusion, your humiliation,
and your silence, and that, in consequence of having too
mucli to say to liim, you say nothing ; if you spoke in
this manner, you would speak the language of faith, and
the language of a penitent king, who, contemplating
lus repeated relapses, and no longer daring to speak to
his God in prayer, said, " Lord, I am troubled, I am
^•' bowed down greatly ; I go mourning all the day
" long ; for mine iniquities are gone over my head, as
^^ an heavy burden, they are too heavy for me. My
" heart panteth, my strength faileth me ; for I will de-
^^ clare mine iniquity, 1 will be sorry for my sin. For-
•• sake me not, O Lord : O my God ! be not far from
'^ me. Make haste to help me, O Lord, my salva-
" tion.'^ Such is the silence of compunction which to
the ear of God forms the true prayer.
But to complain that you liave no longer any thing
to say, when you wish to pray : Alas ! My dear hear-
er, when you present yourself before God, do your past
crimes hold out nothing for you to dread from his judg-
ments, ox to ask from his mercy ? What ! your whole
life has perhaps been only a scene of debauchery ; you
OJV PRAYER. 393
have perverted every thing, the grace which had heen
given you, your talents, your reason, your wealth, your
dignities and your dependants ; you have passed the
best part of your days in the neglect of your God, and
in all the delusion of the world and of the passions ;
you have debased your heart by iniquitous attachments,
defiled your body, disordered your imagination, weak-
ened your reason, and extinguished every happy dis-
position which nature had placed in your soul; and
yet the recollection of all this furnishes you with noth-
ing in the presence of God ! It inspires you with uo idea
of the method you ought to adopt, in bavins; recourse to
him, in order to obtain his forgiveness of such accumula-
ted crimes ! And you have nothing to say to a God
whom you have so long oifended ! O man ! thy salva»
tion, then, must either be irrecoverable, or thou must have
other means of accomplishing it than those of the divine
clemency and mercy.
But, my dear hearer, I go furtlier. If you lead a
Christian life ; if having retired from the world and its
pleasures, you at last enter into the ways of salvation ;
you are still more unjust in complaining that you fiud
nothing to say to the Lord in your prayers. What \
does the singular grace of having opened your eyes, of
undeceiving you with regard to the world, and with-
drawing you from the bottom of the abyss, a blessirjg so
rare, and denied to so many sinners, does it give rise to
no grateful feeling in your heart, when at his feet ? Can
this recollection leave you cold and insensible? Is no-
thing tender awakened by the presence of your Benefac-
tor in your heart, you who pride yourself upon having
never forgotten a benefit, and who so pompously display
the feeling and the excess of your gratitude toward men ?
Vol. lo 48
^4)4 V E R M O JV' XIII
Besides, if you feel those endless desires, which in
spite of your change of life, still rise up within you a-
gainst the law of God ; that difficulty which you still
have in doing well ; that unfortunate inclination which
you still find within you towards evil; those desires of
a more perfect virtue, which always turn out vain ;
those resolutions to which you are always faithless ;
those opportunities in which you always find yourself
the same ; those dudes which always meet the ^ same
repugnance in your heart ; in a word, if you feel that
inexhaustible fund of weakness and of corruption, which
Remains with you after your conversion, and which so
much alarms your virtue, you will not only have ample
matter with which to address the Lord in prayer, but
your whole life will be one continual prayer. The dan-
gers which threaten your weakness, the accidents which
shake your faith, the objects which open afresh the for-
mer wounds of your heart, the inward emotions which
prove that the man of sin still lives within you, will all
lead you to look upwards to him from whom alone you
expect deliverance. As the apostle said, every place
will be to you a place of prayer ; every thing will di-
rect your attention to God, because every thing will fur-
nish you with Christian reflections upon yourself.
Besides, my dear hearer, even granting that your own
necessities may not be sufficient to fill the void of your
prayer, you may still employ a portion of it with the e-
vils of the Church ; with the dissentions of pastors ;
with that spirit of schism and revolt which seems to be
forming in tlie sanctuary ; with the relaxation of belie-
vers ; with the depravity of manners ; with the sad pro-
gress of unbelief, and the diminution of faith among
men. Lament over the scandals of which you are a
OA* PRAYER. 395
continual witness ; complain to the Lord, with the pro-
phet, that all have forsaken him ; that ever^ one seeks
his own interest; that even the salt of the earth hath be-
come tasteless, and that piety is become a trafic. En-
treat of the Lord, for the consummation of his elect, and
for the fulfilment of His designs upon his church, that
we may possess religious princes, faithful pastors, hum-
ble and enlightened teachers, learned and disinterested
guides, peace to the church, the extinction of error, and
the return of all who have gone astray.
What more shall I add ? Entreat the conversion of
your relations, friends, enemies, protectors, and mas-
ters ; the conversion of those souls to whom you have
been a stumbling-block ; of those whom you have for-
merly estranged from piety through your ridicule and
censures ; of those who perhaps owe their irreligion and
freethinkhig solely to the impiety of your past conver-
sation ; whose virtue you may have perverted, or whose
weakness you may have seduced by your example or
solicitation. Is it possible that these great objects, at
once so mournful and so interesting, cannot furnish a
moment's attention to your mind, or feeling to your
heart? Every thing which surrounds you teaches you
to pray ; every object, every accident which you see,
provides you with fresh opportunities of raising yourself
to God ; the world, retirement, the court, the righteous^
the sinful ; public and domestic occurrences, the mis-
fortunes of some, and the prosperity of others; every
thing, in a word, which meets your eyes, supplies you
with subject of lamentation, of prayer, or of thanksgiv-
ing. Every thing instructs your faith ; every thing ex-
cites your zeal ; every thing grieves your piety, or calls
forth your gratitude ; and, amid so many subjects of
396 SERMOJ^ Xîît.
prayer, you cannot supply a single instant of prayer !
Surrounded with so many opportunities of raising your-
self to God, you have nothing to say to Him when you
come to appear in his presence ! Ah ! My brethren, how
far removed must God be from an heart, which fir)ds it
such a punishment to hold converse with Him, and how
little must that master and friend be loved, to whom we
never wish to speak !
This is the last and the principle cause of our incapa-
city in prayer. We know not how to pray and to speak
to our God, because we do not love Him. When the
heart loves, it soon fiîids out how to communicate its
feelings, and to affect the object of its love ; it soon
knows what it ought to say : Alas Î it cannot express all
that it feels. Let us once more establish regularity in
our hearts, my brethren ; let us substitute God in place
of the world ; then shall our heart be no longer a stran-
ger before God. It is tlie irregularity of our affections,
which is the sole cause of our incapacity in prayer ; e-
ternal riches can never be fervently asked, when they
are not loved ; truths can never be well meditated upon,
when they are not relished ; and little can be said to a
God who is hardly known ; favours which are not desi-
red, and freedom from passions which are not hated,
can never be very urgently solicited ; in a word, prayer
is the language of love, and we know not how to pray,
because we know not how to love.
But, you may ask, does an inclination for prayer de-
pend upon us ; and how is it possible to pray, with fee-
lings of disgust and wanderings of the mind, which are
not to be conquered, and which render it insupportable?
This is the second pretext, drawn from the difficulties
and the distaste we are sensible of in prayer.
OJ\r PRAYER, 3^7
Part II. One of the greatest excesses of sin, is un-
doubtedly that backwardness, and as it may be called,
that natural dislike which we have to prayer. Man, in
a state of innocence, would have found his whole de-
light in holding converse with God : all creatures would
have been as an open book, where He would have
incessantly meditated upon his works and his wonders;
the senses, then under the command of reason, would
never have been able to turn liim aside, in spite of him-
self, from the sweet familiarity of his divine presence ;
his whole life would have been one continued contem-
plation of the truth, and his whole happiness in a state
of innocence would have been founded on his continual
communications with the Lord, and the certainty that
He would never forsake him.
Man must therefore be highly corrupted, and sin
must have made strange alterations in us, to turn into a
punishment that which ought to be our happiness. It is
however only too true, that we almost all bear in our
nature this backwardness, and dislike to prayer ; and
upon these is founded the most universal pretext, made
use of in opposition to the discharge of this duty, so es-
sential to Christian piety. Even persons, to whom the
habit of prayer ought to be rendered more pleasing and
familiar, by the practice of virtue, continually complain
of the sensations of disgust and of the constant wander-
ings which they experience in this holy exercise ; inso-
much, that, looking upon it either as a wearisome duty,
or as a lost trouble, they abridge its length, and think
themselves happily quit of a yoke and of a slavery,
when this moment of weariness and restraint is over.
Now, I say, that nothing is more unrighteous than to
estrange ourselves from prayer, on account of the sensa-
398 SEJiMOjy xiiL
fions of disgust and wanderings of the mind, which ren/.
der it painful and disagreeable to us ; for these feelings of
disgust and wanderings originate, in the first place, ei=
ther from our lukewarm ness and infidelities ; or, 2dly,
In our being little accustomed to prayer ; or, 3dly, In
the wisdom even of God, who tries us, and who wishes
to purify our heart, by withholding for a time the sensi-
ble consolations of prayer.
Yes, my brethren, the first, and most common source of
the sensations of disgust and the insipidity of our prayers,
is the lukewarmness and the infidelity of our life. It is,
indeed, an act of injustice, to pretend that we can bring to
prayer a serene and tranquil mind ; a cool imagination,
free from all the vain phantoms by which it is agitated ;
an heart affected with, and disposed to relish the pres-
ence of its God, while our whole life, though otherwise
virtuous in the eyes of man, shall be one continual dis-
sipation ; while we shall continue to live among objects
the most calculated to strike the imagination, and to
make those lively impressions on us which are never
done away ; in a word, while we shall preseve a thou-
sand iniquitous attachments in our heart, which, though
not absolutely criminal in our eyes, yet trouble, divide,
and occupy us, and which weaken in us, or even totally
deprive us of any relish for God, and the things of hea-
ven.
Alas ! my brethren, if the most retired and the most
holy souls ; if the most recluse penitents, purified by
long retreat, and by a life altogether devoted to heaven,,
still found in the mere remembrance of their past man-
ners disagreeable images, which forced their way even
into their solitude, to disturb the comfort and the tranquil-
ity of their prayers ; do we expect that in a life, regular I
OJV PRAYER. 399
confess, but full of agitation, of temptations by which
we are led away, of objects which unsettle and disquiet
us, of pleasures which enervate, and of fears and hopes
which agitate us, we shall find ourselves suddenly in
prayer, become new men, purified from all the images
which sully the mind, freed from all the attachments
which divide, and perhaps corrupt the heart, tranquil
from all the agitations which continually make such vi-
olent and dangerous impressions upon the soul ? and
that, forgetting for à moment the whole world, and all
those vain objects which we have so lately quitted, and
which we still bear in our remembrance and in our
heai't, we shall, all of a sudden, find ourselves raised,
before God, to the meditation of heavenly things, pene-
trated with love for eternal riches, filled with remorse
for innumerable infidelities which we still love, and
with a tranquility of mind and of heart, which the most
profound retirement, and the most rigorous seclusion
from the world, frequently do not bestow ? Ah ! my
brethren, how unjust we are, and into what terrible re-
proaches against ourselves shall the continual com-
plaints made by us against the duties of piety be one
day turned !
And to go farther into this truth, and enter into a de-
tail, which may render it more evident to you : you
complain, in the first place, that your mind, incapable
of a moment's attention in prayer, wanders from it, and
flies off in spite of yourself. But how can it be other-
wise ; or how can you find it attentive and collected, if
every thing you do takes off its attention and unsettles
it ; if in the detail of conduct you never recollect your-
self; if you never accustom yourself to that mental re=
flection, and that life of faith, which, even amid the dis-
400 SEIIMOJV XIIL
sipatioiis of the world, finds ample sources of holy re-
flection ? To have a collected mind in prayer, you must
bring it along with you ; it is necessary that even your
intercourse with sinners, when obliged to live among
them, the sight of their passions, of their anxieties, fears,
hopes, joys, chagrins, and wretchedness, should supply
your faith with reflections, and turn your views tow ard»
God, who alone bestows collection of mind and the tran^
quility of prayer. Then, even on quitting the world
and those worldly conversations, where duty alone shall
have engaged you, you will find no difficulty in recol-
lecting yourself before God, and in forgetting at his
feet those vain agitations which you have so lately
witnessed. On the contrary, the consciousness of the
faith which you have preserved ; the blindness of the
worldly, which you shall there have inwardly deplored,
will cause you to tind new comforts at the feet of Jesus
Christ ; you will there, recreate yourself with delight
from the weariness of dissipation and of worldly no-
things ; you will lament, with increased fervour,
over the folly of men who so madly pursue a vapour,
a chimerical happiness, which eludes their grasp, and
which it is impossible ever to attain, for the world in
which they seek it cannot bestow it ; you will then more
warmly thank the Lord for having with so much good-
ness, and notwithstanding your crimes, enlightened and
distinguished you from that multitude which must per-
ish ; you will there see, as in a new light, the happi-
ness of those souls who serve him, and whose eyes
being opened upon vanity, no longer live but for the
truth.
'^Zily, You complain that your heart, insensible in
prayer, feels nothing fervent for its God, but, on the
OJV PRATER. 401
contrary, suffers from a distaste which renders it insiip^
portable. But how is it possible that your heart, whol-
ly engrossed with the things of the earth, filled with in-
iqitous attachments, with an inclination for the world,
with love of yourself, with schemes for exalting your sta-
tion, and with desires perhaps of pleasing; how is it possi-
ble, I say, that your heart, compounded of so many earth-
ly affections, should still have any feelings for the things
of heaven ? It is wholly filled witli created beings, where
then should the Creator find a place in it ? We cannot
lo\e both God and the world. Thus, when the Is-
raelites had passed the Jordan, and had eaten of the
fnits of the earth, " the manna ceased on the morrow
^' t>':er they had eaten of the old corn of the land, iiei-
*^ ther had the children of Israel manna any more;"
as if to show, that they could not enjoy at the same
time both the lieavenly nourishment, and that of the
earth.
Love of the world, said St. Augustin, like a danger-
ous fever, sheds an universal bitterness through the
heart, which renders the invisible and eternal riches in-
sipid and disgusting to us. Thus you say you never
come to prayer, but with an insurmountable disgust :
Ah ! It is a proof that your heart is diseased ; that a
secret fever, perhaps unknown even to yourself, causes
it to languish, and impairs and disgusts it; that it is
engrossed by a foreign love. Mount to the source of
your disgust towards God, and every thing connected
with him, and see if they will not be found in the ini-
quitous attachments of your heart ; see if you are not
still a slave to yourself, to the vain cares of dress, to
frivolous friendships, to dangerous animosities, to secret
envies, to desires of rank, and to every thing around
Vol. L J,9
lÙZ S Eli MO. Y XlîJ.
yoii : tliese ave ihe source of the evil : apply the reme-
dy to it: take something every day upon yourself; la-
hour seriously towards purifying your heart ; you will
then taste the comforts and the consolations of prayer ;
the world then, no longer engrossing your affections, you
will find your God more worthy of heing loved : for we
soon ardently love the only ohject of our love.
And, after all, give the truth its proper glory. Is it
not true, that in the days in which you have heen most
guarded ; the days in which you have made some sacri-
fices to the Lord, of your inclinations, your indolence,
your temper, or your aversions ; is it not true, that, in
these days, you have addressed your prayers to the
Lord with more peace, more consolation, and more de-
light? We encounter, with double pleasure, the eyes of
a master to whom we have lately given some striking
proof of fidelity ; on the contrary, we are in pain bel\)re
him, when we feel that he has cause for a thousand just
reproaches against us ; we are then anxious and under
restraint; we endeavour to hide ourselves from his view,
like the first sinner ; we no longer address him with that
overflowing heart, and that confidence which a con-
science pure and void of offence inspires ; and the mo-
ments, when we are under the necessity of supporting
his divine presence, aie anxiously counted.
Thus, when Jesus Christ commands us to pray. He
begins with commanding us to watch. He thereby
means us to understand that vigilance is the only pre-
paration necessary for prayer ; that to love to pray, it is
necessary to watch ; and that fondness for and consola-
tions in prayer, are granted only to the recollection and
to the sacrifices of vigilance. I know, that, if you do
not pray, you can never watch over yourscUT and liv© in
OJV* PRAYER 40â
a state of holiness ; but I likewise know, that, if you ex»
ert not that vigilance which causes a holy life, you can
never pray with comfort and consolation. Prayer, it is
true, obtains for us the gi^ace of vigilance ; but it is yet
more true, that vigilance alone can draw^ down upon us
the gift and the usage of the prayer.
And, from thence, it is easy to conclude, that a life of
the world, even granting it to be the most innocent ; that
is to say, a life of pleasure, of play, of dissipation, and
of theatrical amusements, which you call so innocent,
when attended with no other harm than that of disqual-
ifying you for prayer ; supposing tliat this worldly life,
which you so strongly justify, should contain nothing
more criminal, than that of disgusting you with prayer,
of drying up your heart, of unsettling your imagination,
of weakening your faith, and of filling your mind with
anxiety and trouble ; were we to judge of the security of
this state merely fronv what' you continually tell us, that
you are incapable of arranging yourself for prayer, and
that, on your part, it is always attended with an insup-
portable disgust and weariness ; I say, that for these
reasons alone, the most innocent worldly life is a life of
sin and reprobation ; a life for w hich there is no salva-
tion : for salvation is promised only to prayer ; salvation
is not attainable but through the aid of prayer ; salvation
is granted only to perseverance in prayer ; consequent-
ly, every life which places an invincible obstacle in the
way of prayer, can have ^iîo "'pretensions to salvation.
Now", you are fully sensible yourselves, my brethren,
that a life of dissipation, of play, of pleasure, and of
public places, puts an essential obstacle in the way of
prayer ; that it places in your heart, in your imagina-
tion, and in your senses, an invincible disgust with pray=
er ; an unsettled state, incompatible with the spirit of
prayer : you continually complain of this, and you even
make use of it as a pretext for not praying ; be assured
therefore from this, that there is no salvation for the
worldly life, even the most innocent; for, wherever pray-
er is impossible, salvation must likewise be so. Tlie
lukewarmness and infidelity of our life, is therefore the
first cause of the dislike we feel for, and the wanderings
we are sensible of in prayer.
The second is the little use we make of prayer. We
pray with disgust, because we seldom pray. For, ist,
It is the practice alone of prayer which can gradually
calm your mind, insensibly banish from it the images of
the world and of vanity, and disperse the clouds which
produce all the distastes and wandering you feel in
prayer. %dhj^ You must ask for a long time before you
can obtain ; you must press, fex)licit, and even importune;
for the sweets and the consolations of prayer are the
fruit and the reward of prayer itself. Zdly, There must
be familiarity, in order to find pleasure in it. If you sel-
dom pray, the Lord will be a strange and an unknow n
God to you, as I may say, before whom you will feel
yourself embarrassed, and under a kind of restraint ;
with whom you will never experience those overflow-
ings of heart, that sweet confidence, and that holy free-
dom, which familiarity alone bestows, and which consti-
tute the whole pleasure of the divine intercourse. God
requires to be known, in order to be loved. The world
loses by being examined ; the surface, and the first
glance of it, are alone smiling. Search deeper, and you
will find but emptiness, vanity, anxious care, agitation,
and misery. But the Lord must be tasted, says the
prophet, in order to feel how good He is. The more
OJV PRAYER: 405
you know, the more you love Hira ; the more you unite
yourself to Him, the more will you feel that there is no
true happiness on the earth, but that of knowing and of
loving; Him.
It is the use, therefore, of prayer, which alone can
render prayer pleasing. Thus we see that the generali-
ty of persons who complain of the distaste and wander-
ing they feel in prayer, seldom pray ; they think this
important duty fulfilled, w hen they have bestowed upon
the Lord a few hasty moments of thoughtlessness and
restraint ; they forsake it on the first symptom of disgust;
they make no exertion to reduce and to familiarize their
mind to it ; and, far from considering prayer as being
rendered only more necessary to them, by their invinci-
ble repugnance to it, they regard that very repugnance
as a legal excuse, which absolves them altogether from
it.
But how find time in the world, you will say, to make
so long and so frequent an use of prayer ? How ! my
dear hearer, not find time to pray ? Wherefore is time
given you, but for the purpose of entreating God to for-
get your crimes, to look upon you with eyes of compas-
sion, and to place you one day among the number of
His holy? You have not time to pray ! You have not
time, then, to be a Christian ! For, a man who prays
not, is a man who has no God, no worship, and no hope.
You have not time to pray ! Prayer is the beginning of
all good ; and if you do not pray, you have not yet per-
formed a single work for eternal life. Ah ! my breth-
ren, do we ever want time to solicit the favours of the
earth, to importune our superiours, to besiege those who
are in place, to bestow upon pleasures, or upon idleness ?
What useless moments ! What la;iguid and tiresome»
ii)^ sÊnMOK xiii.
days do wc pass, through the mere gloom wliîch ever
accompanies idleness ! What time is lost in vain cere-
monials, in idle conversations, in boundless gaming, in
fruitless servility, in grasping at chimeras which move
farther and farther from us ! Great God ! And yet men
want time to assk heaven of Thee, to appease thy wrath,
and to supplicate thine eternal mercies ! How humbly,
0 my God, must salvation be estimated, when men have
no time to entreat of Thy mercy to save us ! And how
much are we to be deplored, to find so many moments
for the world, and to be unable to find a single one for
eternity ! The second cause therefore, of the distaste and
wandering we find in prayer, is the little use of prayer
itself.
It is true, my brethren, that this reason is not so gen-
eral, but what souls, the most faithful to prayer, are of-
ten seen to experience all that dislike and absence of
mind of which I speak ; but, I say, that this disgust
proceeds from the wisdom of God, who means to purify
them, and who leads them by that path, only in order
to fufil his eternal designs of mercy upon them : conse-
quently, far from being repulsed by wliat they find
gloomy and disagreeable in prayer, they ought to per-
severe in it with even more fidelity, than if the Lord
had shed upon them the most abundant and the most
sensible consolations.
ist, Because you ought to consider these sensations
of disgust, as the just punishment of your past infidelities.
Is it not reasonable, that God should m.ike you expiate
the criminal voluptuousness of your worldly life, by the
feelings of disgust and the sorrows which accompany
piety? Weakness of temperament does not perhaps
permit you to punish; by corporeal suJSerings, the licen-
OA- PRAYEH. 407
tiousness of your past manners ; is it not just that God
should supply that, by the punishment, and the inward
afflictions of the mind ? Would you pretend to pass in
an instant from the pleasures of the world to those of
grace; from the viands of Egypt to the milk and honey
of the land of promise, without the Lord having first
made you undergo the barrenness and the fatigues of the
desert? and, in a word, would you wish that he should
not chastise the delights, if I may venture to say so, of
guilt, but by those of virtue ?
2(//^, You have long refused yourself to God, in spite
of the most lively inspirations of his grace, which recal-
led you to the truth and to the light ; you have long
suffered him to knock at the gate of your heart before
you opened it to him ; you have disputed, struggled a-
gainst, wavered, and deferred, before you gave yourself
up to him ; is it not therefore just that He leave you to
solicit for some time before He give himself to you with
all the consolations of his grace! The delay and pro-
crastination of the Lord are the just punishment of
^our own.
But, even admitting these reasons to be less weighty,
how do you know if the Lord thereby mean not to ren-
der this state of exile, aud this separation in which we
live from him more hateful to you, and to increase the
fervency of your longings for that imuiorfal country,
where truth, seen in open day, will alwa^ appear love-
ly, because we shall see it such as it is ? How do you
know if he mean not thereby to inspire you with fresh
remorse for your past crimes, by making you sensible,
«very moment, of the opposition and feelings of disgust
which they have left in your heart to the truth and to right-
eousness ? Lastly, How do you know, if the liord mean
40S sEHMOjsr xiiL
VLoiy by tlie^e sensations of disgust, to perfect the puri-
fication of what may as yet be too human in ^our pietj> ?
If he mean not to establish your virtue upon that iruth
which is always the same, and not upon inclination and
fancy, w hich incessantly change ; upon rules which are
eternal, and not upon consolations w hich are transitory ;
upon faith which never fails to sacrifice visible for the
invisible riches, and not upon feeling, which leaves to
the world almost the same empire that grace hath over
your heart ? The piety of fancy goes only a short way,
if not sustained and confirmed by the truth. It is dan-
gerous to let our fidelity depend upon the feeling dispo-
sitions of an heart which is never an instant the same,
and upon which every object makes new impressions.
The duties which only please when they console, do
not please long ; and that virtue which is founded only
on fancy, can never sustain itself, because it rests only
upon ourselves.
For, nfter all, if you seek only the Lord in your pray-
ers, provided the way by which He leads you conduct
to Him, it ought to matter little to you whether it be by
the road of difficulties, or of consolations ; for, being the
surest, it ought always to appear preferable to all others.
If you pray only to attract more aid from heaven in re-
lief of your w ants, or in support of your weakness, faith
teaching you that prayer, even when accompanied with
those sensations of disgust and weariness, obtains the
same favours, produces the same effects, and is equally
acceptable to God, as that in w hich sensible consolations
are found ; and indeed that it may become even more a-
greeable to the Lord, through your acceptance of the
difficulties which you there encounter ; faith teaching
you this, you ought to be equally faithful to prayer as if
OvV PnAYER. 4-09
ît held out the most sensible attractions, otherwise it
would not be God whom you sought, but yourselves ; it
would not be eternal riches, but vain and fleeting conso-
lations ; it would not be the remedies of faith, but the
supports of your self-love.
Thus, beyewliOm you may who now listen to me,
imitate 1 beseech you the woman of Canaan ; be faithful
to prayer, and in the fulfilment: of this duty you will find
all the rest sustained and rendered easy. If you are a
sinner, pray : it was through prayer alone that tlie pub-
lican and the sinful woman of the gospel obtained fee-
lings of compunction, and the grace of a thorough [>eni-
tence ; and prayer is the only soun^e and the only path
of righteo isness. If righteous, still pray ; perseverance
in faith and piety is promised only to prayer ; and by
that it was that Job, that David, and that Tobias, per-
severed to the end. If you live amid sinners, and your
duty does not permit you to withdraw yourself from the
sight of their irregularities and examples ; pray : tlie
greater the dangers, the more necessary does prayer be-
come ; as the three children in the flames, and Jonah in
the belly of a monster, found safety only through pray-
er. If the ties of your birth, or of your station, attach
you to the courts of kings ; pray : Esther, in the court of
Ahasuerus, Daniel in that of Darius, and the prophets
in the palaces of the kings of Israel, were indebted to
prayer alone, for their life and salvation. If you live
in retirement, pray : solitude itself becomes a source of
danger, if a continual intercourse with God does not de-
fend us against ourselves ; as Judith, in the solitude of
her house, and the widow Anna in the temple, and the
Anthonies in the desert, found the fruit and the security
of their retreat in prayer alone* If established in the
Vol. I. fîO
MO ■^EBMOJV Xlli.
church for ih^ instruction of the people ; pray : all the
power and all the success of your ministry must depend
upon your prayers ; as the apostles converted the uni-
verse;, only because they had appropriated nothing to
themselves but prayer and the preaching of the gospel.
Lastly, Be ye whom you may, I again repeat it, in pros-
perity or in indigence, in joy or in affliction, in trouble
or in peace, in a state of hope or of despondency, in the
paths of vice or in the ways of righteousness, whether
advanced in virtue, or still in the first steps of penitence;
pray : prayer i§ the safety of all stations, the consolation
of all sorrows, the duty of all conditions, the soul of pie-
ty, the support of faitli^ the great foundation of religion,
and all religion itself. Shed then upon us O God!
that spirit of grace and of prayer which was to be the dis-
tinguishing mark of Thy church, and the portion of a
new people ; and purify our hearts and our lips, tbat we
may be enabled to offer up to thee a pure homage, fer-
vent sighs, and prayers worthy of the eternal riches
which thou hast so often promised to those who shall
have well entreated themo
( 41i )
SERMON XIV.
FORGIVENESS OF INJURIES.
:^^:
Matthew y, 43.
JTe have heard that it hath been said. Thou shall love
thy neighboitr and hate thine enemy: But I say unto
yoiiy love your enemies.
It is commonly believed that a degreee of indulgence^
and caution had been used by the legislator of the Jews,
in publishing the law with regard to forgiveness of in-
juries ; that, being obliged to accommodate it, in some
respect, to the weakness of a carnal people, and other-
wise persuaded that, of all virtues, the love of ones ene-
my was the most difficult to tlie heart of man, he was
satisfied with regulating and prescribing bounds for re-
venge. It was ofdy in order to prevent great excesses,
says St. Augustin, that he meant to give authority to
lesser ones. That law, like all the others, had its sane»
tity, it& goodness and its justice ; but it was rather an
<41g sermojY xir.
establishment of police tlian a rule of piety. It was cal-
culated to maintain the internal tranquility of the state ;
but it neither touched the heart, nor struck at the root of
hatred and revenge. The only effect proposed, was ei-
ther to restrain the aggressor, ]>y threatening him with
the same punishment with which he had grieved his
brother, or to put a check upon the irritation of the of-
fended, partly by letting him see that, if he exceeded
in the satisfaction required, he exposed himself to un-
dergo all the surplus of his revenge.
Philosophers also, in their morality, had placed the
forgiveness of injuries among the number of virtues ;
but it was a pretext of vanity, rather than a rule of dici-
pline. It was because revenge seemed to them to carry
along with it something mean and passionate, which
"would have disfigured the features, and the proud tran-
quility of their sage : and because it appeared disgrace-
ful to them to be unable to rise superiour to an injury.
The forgiveness of their enemies was founded there-
fore, only upon the contempt in which they held them.
They avenged themselves by disdaining revenge ; and
pride readily gave up the pleasure of hurting those who
had injured them, for the pleasure which was found in
despising them.
But the law of the gospel, in regard to the love of
one-s enemy, neither flatters pride, nor spares self-love.
In the forgiveness of injuries nothing ought to indemnify
the Christian, but the consolation of imitating Jesus
Christ, and of obeying him ; the title of Christian, which,
in an enemy, discovers to him a brother ; and the hope of
meeting, before the Eternal Judge, with tlie same induU
2:ence which he shall have used towards men. Nothinii:
ought to limit him in his charity, but charity itself, which
ï'ORGlVEJSrESS OF IJ^'JURIES. I<i8
hath no bounds, which excepts neither places, times, nor
persons, and which ought never to be extinguished. And,
should the religion of Christians liave no other proof a-
gainst unbelief than the sublime elevation of this max=
im, it would always have this pre-eminence in sanctity,
and consequently in apparent truth over all the sects^
which have ever appeared upon the earth.
Let us develope, therefore, the motives and the rules
of this essential point of the law : the motives, by es-
tablishing the equity of the precept by means of the very
pretexts which seem to oppose it ; the rules, by laying
open ihe illusions under which every one justifies to
himself their infractions ; that is to say, the injustice of
our hatreds, and the falsity of our reconciliations.
Part I. The three principles which usually bind
men to each other, and which form all humaji ties and
friendships, are fancy, cupidity, and vanity. Fancy —
We follow a certain propensity of nature, which being
the cause of our finding, in some persons, a greater sim-
ilarity to our own inclinations, perhaps also greater al-
lowances for our faults, binds us to them, and occasions
us to find, in their society, a comfort which becomes
weariness in that of the rest of men. Cupidity — We
seek out useful friends ; from the moment that they are
necessary to our pleasure or to our fortune, they become
worthy of our friendship ; interest is a great charm to
the majority of hearts ; the titles which render us pow-
erful, are quickly transmuted into qualities which ren-
der us apparently amiable, and friends are never want-
ing, when we can pay the friendship of those who love
us. Lastly, Vanity — Friends who do us honour are
always dear t^ us ; it wouljl seem that in loving them.
4.1^ iiERMOJ\r XIV^
we enter as it were^ into partnership with them, in thai^
distinction which they enjoy in the world ; we seek to
deck ourselves out, as I may say, with their reputation ;
and, being unable to reach their merit, we pride our-
selves in their society, in order to have it supposed that,^
at least, there is not much difference between us, and
that like loves like.
These are the three great ties of human society. Re-
ligion and charity unite very few : and thence it is, that
from the moment men offend our fancy, are unfavour»
able to our interests, or wound our reputation and vanity,
from that moment the brittle ties which united us to
them are broken asunder ; our heart withdraws from
them and feels with respect to them, only hatred and
bitterness. These are the three most general sources
of the animosities v/hich men nourish against each other^
which change all the sweets of society into endless in-
veteracies, poison all the delight of conversation, and
all the innocency of mutual intercourse, and attacking
religion in the heart, present themselves to us neverthe-
less under appearances of equity, which justify them in
our eyes, and strengthen us in them.
I say, from the moment that men offend our fancy ;
and this is the first pretext, and the first cause of our
withdrawing from, and of our hatred against our breth-
ren. You say, that you cannot accord with such a per-
son ; that every thing in him offends and displeases
you ; that you feel an antipathy which you cannot con-
quer ; that his manners seem fashioned to irritate you ^
that to see him would answer no other purpose than to
augment the natural aversion which you have to him 5
and that nature hath placed within us hatred and affec-
tion, attachments and aversions, for which she alone is
to be answerable.
FORGJVEJ^ESS OF imURlES, 41^
To this 1 might give an answer at once, by establish-
ing the foundations of the Christian doctrine upon the
love of our brethren: Is the man, who happens to be
displeasing and disagreeable to your fancy, less your
brother, the cliild of God, a citizen of Heaven, a mem-
ber of Jesus Christ, and an inheritor of the eternal prom-
ises? Does his humour, his character, or whatever it
may be, efface any one of those august marks which he
hath received upon the sacred font, which unite Mm to
you by divine and immortal ties, and which ought to
render him dear and respectable to you ? When Jesus
Christ commands us to love our brethren as ourselves,
does He mean to make a precept which costs nothing to
the heart, and in the fulfilment of which we are to find
neither difficulty nor hardship? Ah! What occasion
has He to command us to love our brethren, if, in vir-
tue of that commandment, we were obliged to love only
those for whom we feel a natural fancy and inclination.
The heart has no occasion, on this point, for precept ; it
has its own law. The precept then supposes a difficul-
ly on our part: Jesus Christ hath foreseen, that it
would be hard upon us to love our brethren ; that we
should find within us antipathies and dislikes which
would withdraw us from them ; and thus He hath at^
tached so much merit to the observance of this single
point, and hath so often declared to us, that, to observQ,
it, was to observe the whole law. Aversion to our
brethren, far then from justifying our estrangement from
them, makes on the contrary, the obligation of loving
them more precise, and places us personally in the case
of the precept.
But besides, ought a Christian to be regulated by fan^
cy and humour, or by the principles of reason, of faith.
4^16 sermojY xif\
of religion, and of grace ? And how loing is it since the
natural fancy, which we are commanded by the gospel
to oppose, has become a privilege which absolves us
from its rules ? If the repiignance felt for duties were a
title of exemption, where is the believer who would not
be rid of the whole law, and who would not find his
justification and his innocency, in proportion as he felt a
greater degree of corruption in his heart ? Are our fan-
cies become our law? Is religion only the support, and
not the remedy of nature ? Is it not considered a weak-
ness, even in the eyes of the world, to regulate our mo-
tions and our sentiments, our hatreds and our love to-
wards men, merely upon the caprices of a fancy for
which we ourselves can give no reason ? Do men of this
description honour, I will not say religion, but humani-
ty ? And are they not, even to the world itself, a spec-
tacle of contempt, of derision, and of censure? W hat a
chaos would society be, if fancy alone were to decide
upon our duties, and reciprocal attentions, and if men
were to be united by no other law ? Now, if the rules,
even of society, exact, that fancy alone should not be the
sole principle of our conduct towards the rest of men,
should the gospel be more indulgent on that point ?
That gospel, which preaches only self-denial ; which
every where commands us to do violence to ourselves,
and to strive against our fancies and our affections ;
which demands that we should act througli views supe.
riour to flesh and blood, and that we should hesitate
not to sacrifice to the sanctity of faith, and to the sub-
limity of its rules, not only our caprices, but our most
legal inclinations.
It is' therefore absurd to allege as an excuse, that you
feel an aversion to your brother, which is i^i itself your
FOSGIVEJ^ESS OF JJ\'JURIES. 417
guilt. I might add ; You complaiu that your brother is
displeasing to you, and that it is not possible for you to
bear with, or to be in agreement with him : but do you
suppose that you yourself are displeasmg to none ? Can
you guarantee to us, that you are universally liked, and
that every one applauds and approves of you? Now, if
you exact, that every thing offensive in your manners
should be excused, on account of the goodness of your
heart, and of those essential qualities upon which you
pride yourself ; if to you it appear unreasonable to be
offended at trifles, and by certain sallies which we can-
not always command ; if you insist upon being judged
by the consequence, by the ground- work, by the recti^
tude of your sentiments and conduct, and not in conse-
quence of those humours which sometimes invokmtarily
escape you, and upon which it is very difficult to be al-
ways guarded against one's self; have then, the same
equity for your brother; apply the same to yourself ;
bear with him as you have occasion to be borne with
yourself ; and do not justify, by your estrangement from
him, the unjust aversion which may be felt for yourself.
And this rule is so much the more equitable, as you
have only to cast youf eyes upon what is continually
passing in the world, to be convinced that those who
are loudest in trumpeting forth the faults of their breth-
ren, are the very persons with whom no one can agree,
who are the pest of society^ and a grievance to the rest of
men.
And I might here ask you, my dear hearer, if these
disagreeable principles which render your brother so in-
supportable to you, be not rather in yourself, that is to
say in your pride, in the capricious ness of your temper,
in the contrariety of your character, than in his \ I might
Vol. L * at
£|iB èiEHMOM XIV.
ask you^ if all the world see in liim what you pretend
to see yourself; if his friends, his relations^ his intimates,
look upon liim with the same eyes that you do? Again
I might ask you, if that which displeases you in him be
not perhaps his good qualities ; if his talents, his repu-
tatiou, his credit, and his fortune, have not perhaps a
greater share in your aversion than his faults ; and, if it
be not his merit or his rank which have hitherto in your
sight constituted his wliole crime ? We are so easily de-
ceived in this point ! Envy is a passion so well masked,
and so artful in disguising itself; there is always some-
thing so mean and degrading in it, and as it is a secret
confession made to ourselves of our own mediocrity, it
always shows itself to us under a foreign cloak, which
completely conceals it from us ; but fathom your hearty»
and you will see that only those, who either sui'pass, or
who shine with too much lustre near you, have the mis-
fortune to displease you ; that you consider those only
amiable who have nothing to contest with you ; that all
who rise above, or are even equal to you, constrain and
hurt you ; and that to have a claim to your friendship,
it is necessary to have no communion with either your
pretensions or your hopes.
But I go still further, and I enti'eat you to listen to
me. I admit your brother to have more faults than
even you accuse him of having. Alas ! You are gentle
and friendly towards those from whom you expect y oui
fortune and your establishment, and whose temper,
haughtiness, and manners, notwithstanding shock you.
You bear with all their pride, their rebukes, and their
scorns ; you swallow all their inequalities and caprices :
You are never disheartened ; your patience is always
greater than your antipathy and your repugnance;^ and
FORGIVEJ^ESS OF WJUBIEi. 419
you neglect notliing to please. Alas ! If you regarded
your brother, as one upon whom depends your eternal
salvation, as one to whom you are to be indebted, not
for a fortune of dirt, and an uncertain establishment, but
for the fortune even of your eternity ; would you follow,
with regard to him, the caprice of your fancy ? Would
you not conquer the unjust antipathy which estranges
you from him? Would you suffer so much in putting
your inclinations in unison with your eternal interests,
and in doing upon yourself so useful and so necessa-
ry a violence? You bear with every thing for the
world and for vanity ; and yet you pretend to think
it hard, from the moment that a single painful proceed-
ing is exacted of you for eternity !
And say not, I beseech you, that there are caprices of
nature for which no reason can be given, and that we
are not the masters of our fancies and likings. I grant
this to a certain point; but there is a love of reason and
of religion, whicli ought always to gain ascendency over
that of nature. The gospel requires not of you to have
a fancy for your brother, it exacts only that you love
him; that is to say, that you bear with him, that you
excuse him, that you conceal his faults, and that you
serve him ; in a word, that you do for him whatever you
would wish to have done for yourself Charity is not
a blind and capricious fancy, a natural liUmg or a sym-
pathy of temper and disposition ; it is a just, enlighten-
ed, and reasonable duty ; a love which takes its rise in
the impulses of grace, and in the views of faith. It is
not rightly loving our brethren, to love tliem only through
fancy ; for that is loving one's self. Charity alone en-
ables us to love them as we ought, and charity alone
can form real and stedfast friends. For. fancy is con-
4^0 SEIIM0J\' XIV,
tinually changing, but charity never dieth ; fancy seeks
only itself, charity seeketh not its own interest, but the
interest of those it loves ; fancy is not proof against eve-
ry thing, a loss, disaster or disgrace, but charity riseth
superior to death : fancy loves only its own convenience,
charity findeth nothing amiss, and suffereth every thing
for those itloveth; fancy is blind, and often renders
even the vices of our brethren amiable to us, charity
never giveth praise to iniquity, and in others loveth only
the truth. The friends of grace are therefore much
more to be relied on than those of nature. The same
fancy which unites the manners^ is often, a moment after^
the cause of separating them ; but the ties formed by
charity eternally endure.
Such is the first source of our attachments and of our
dislikes, the injustice, and the capriciousness of our fan-
cy. Interest is the second : for nothing is more com-
mon than to hear you justifying your animosities, by
telling us that such a man hath neglected nothing to ru-
in you ; that he has been the means of blasting your for-
tune : that he continually excites vexatious affairs against
you ; that you find him an insuperable impediment in
your way, and that it is difficult to love an enemy so
bent on injuring you.
But, granting that you speak the truth, I make this
answ er : To all the other ills which your brother hath
caused yott, why should you add that of hating him,
which is the greatest of all, since all the others have ten-
ded to snatch from you only fleeting and frivolous rich-
es, while this is the cause of ruin to your soul, and de-
prives you for ever of your claim to an immortal king-
dom? In hating him, you injure yourself much more
than all his malignity with respect to you could ever
FORGIVI^J^ESS OF INJURIES. ^%i
do. He has been the means of overthrowing your tem-
poral fortune you say ; supposing this to be tiie case^
by hating him you destroy the foundation of your eter=
nal fortune. He liath usurped you suy the patrimony
of your fathers ; it may be so ; and in order to avenge
yourself, you renounce the inheritance of the heavenly-
Father, and the eternal patrimony of Jesus Christ.
You take your revenge then upon yourself ; and, m or=
der to console yourself for the ills done to you by your
brother, you provide for yourself one without end and
without n^easure.
And further, Does your hatred towards your brother
restore any of those advantages which he hath snatched
from you ? Does it ameliorate your condition ? What
do you reap from your animosity and your rancour?
In hating him, you say that you console yourself, and
this is the only consolation left to you. What a conso»
lation, great God, is that of hatred ! that is to say, of a
gloomy and furious passion, which gnaws the heart,
sheds anguish and sorrow through ourselves, and begins
by punishing and rendering us miserable ! What a
cruel pleasure is that of hating — that is to say, of bearing
in the heart a load of rancour, which poisons every other
moment of life ! What a barbarous method of consoling
one's self ! And are you not worthy of pity, to choose
a remedy for your evils, which answers no purpose but
that of making permanent a transitory injury by means
of hatred ?
But to quit this human language, and speak in that
of the gospel, to which our mouths are consecrated. îf
you were Christian, my dear hearer ; if you had not
lost faith, far from hating those whom God hath made
instrumental in blasting your hopes and your pr()iects
iiEHMOJV XW
of fortune^ you would regard them as the instruments
of his mercies upon your soul, as the ministers of your
sanctification, and the blessed rocks which have been
the means of saving you from shipwreck. You would
Jiave been lost in credit and in elevation ; you would
have neglected your Grod : your ambition would have
increased with your foiiune, and death would have sur-
prised you in the vortex of the world of passions, and
of human expectancies. But, in order to save your soul,
the Lord, in his great mercy, hath raised up obstacles
which have stopt your course. He hath employed an
envious person, a rival perhaps, to supplant you, to keep
you at a distance from favours, and to place himself
between you and the precipice, into which you were
running headlong for ever to perish : He hath seconded,
as I may say, his ambition ; he hath favoured his de-
signs ; and, through an incomprehensible excess of good-
ness towards you, he hath crossed your worldly schemes :
He hath raised up your enemy in time, in order to save
you in eternity. You ought therefore to adore the eter-
nal designs of his justice and mercy upon men ; to con-
sider your brother as the blessed cause of your salva-
tion ; to entreat of God, that, seeing his ambition or
his bad intentions have been employed to save you, he
may inspire him with sincere repentance, and that the
person who hath been the instrument of your salvation,
be not permitted to perish himself.
Yes, my brethren, our sentiments of hatred proceed
entirely from our Avant of faith. Alas ! If we regarded
every thing wliich passes away, as a vapour without
substance ; if we were thorou2:hlv convinced that all this
is nothing, that salvation is the great and important af-
fair, and that our treasure and our true riciies are only
FORGIVEJ^ESS OF IJ\rJURIES. 4â3
in eternity, where, in the twinkling of an eye, we shall
"be ; if we were convinced of this, alas ! we would consid-
er men, who passionately quarrel and dispute with each
other, for the dignities of the earth, as children who fall
out among themselves for the play -things which amuse
their eye ; whose childish hatreds and animosities turn
upon trifles, which infancy alone, and the feeble state of
their reason magnify in their eyes ; and who are tran-
quil on the greatest and most important events, on the
loss of the patrimony of their fathers, and the fall of
their family, and keen even to excess, when deprived of
any of the little trifling objects which delight their infan-
cy. Thus, O my God, foolish and puerile men feel not
the loss of their heavenly inheritance, of that immortal
patrimony, bequeathed to them by Jesus Christ, and
which their brethren are already enjoying in heaven.
They see without concern the kingdom of God, and the
only true riches pass away from them ; and, like chil-
dren, they are inflamed with rage, and mutually arm a^
gainst each other, from the instant that their frivolous
possessions are encroached upon, or that any attempt is
made to deprive them of those childish play-things, the
only value or importance of which, is that of serving to
deceive their feeble reason, and to amuse their child»
hood.
For a Christian, therefore, interest is an unworthy
and criminal pretext for his hatred towards his breth-
ren ; but vanity, which is the last source, is still less ex-
cusable.
For, my brethren, we wish to be liked, and to have
our faults as well as our virtues applauded ; and, al-
though we feel our own weaknesses, yet we are so un-
reasonable^ as to exact that others should see them not,
SERMOJsr XIV.
and that they should even give us credit for certain qual-
ities^ which we inwardly reproach ourselves with as vi-
ces. We wish that all mouths were tilled with our
praises alone ; and that the world, which forgives no-
thing, and spares not even its masters, should admire in
us what it censures in others.
In effect, you complain, that your enemy hath both
privately and publicly decried you ; that he hath added
calumny to slander ; that he hath attacked you in the
tenderest and most feeling quarter, and that he hath ne-
glected nothing to blast your honour and your reputa-
tion in the opinion of men.
But, before replying to this, I might first say to you,
mistrust the reports which have been made to you of
your brother ; the most innocent speeches reach us so
much empoisoned, through the malignity of the tongues
which convey them ; there are so many mean flatterers,
who seek to be agreeable at the expense of those who
are not so ; there are so many dark and wicked minds,
whose only pleasure is in finding out evil where none is
meant, and in sowing dissention among men ; there are
so many volatile and imprudent characters, who repeat
at improper times and with a malicious air what at first
had been only said with the most innocent intentions ;
there are so many men, naturally given to the hyperbole,
and in whose mouth every thing is magnified, beyond
the natural and simple truth ; that I appeal to yourself :
Has it never happened to you, that your most innocent
sayings have been perverted, and circumstances added
to your recitals, which you had never even thought of?
Have you not at such periods exclaimed against the in-^
justice and the malignity of the tale-bearer? Why
might not you, in your turn, have been deceived?
fobgivejyess cuf jjyjubies, 4,^5
And, if every thing wliicli passes through a variety of
channels, be in general adulterated, and never reach us
in its original purity, why should you suppose that re-
marks, which relate to you alone, were exempted from
the same lot, and were entitled to more attention and
belief? You will no doubt reply, that these general
maxims are not the point in question, and \h'\i the ac-
tions of which you complain, are not doubtful, but pos-
itive. I admit it ; and I ask, if vodi' brother have not
on his side, the same reproaches to make to you ; if you
have always been very lenient and very charitable to
his faults ; if you have always rendered justice even to
his good qualities ; if you have never permitted him to
be reviled in your presence ; if you have not aided the
malignity of such conversation by an affected modera-
tion, which hath only tended to blow up the fire of de-
traction, and to supply new traits against your brother :
I ask you, if you are even circumspect towards the rest
of men ; if you readily forgive the weakness of others ;
if your tongue be not, in general, dipt in wormwood and
gall ; if the best established reputation, be not always
in danger in your hands; and, if the most unfortunate
private histories, do not speedily become matter of
notoriety, through jour malignity and imprudence? O
Man, to what lengths dost thou not push thy sensibility
to whatever regards thyself ! We have occasion for all
the terror of our ministry, and for all the most weighty
inducements of religion, to bring thee to forgive thy
brother a single speech, perhaps only a word, which
imprudence, chance, circumstances, or perhaps a just re-
sentment hath forced from him ; and yet the licentious-
ness of thy own language in regaji'd to others knows nei-
YoL I- ^ 52
4:^ ^EIIMOjV XIV.
tlier tlie bounds of politeness, nor of that decency wbicir
the world itself prescribes.
But, granting that you have nothing to reproach your*
self with on the score of moderation towards your bro-
ther. What do you gain by hating him ? Do you there-
by efface the fatal impressions which his remarks may
have left on the minds of men? On the contrary, yon
Inflict a fresh wound upon your heart ; you give yourself
a stab which carries death to your soul ; you wrench
the sword from his hands, if I may speak in this man-
ner, in order to plunge it into yourself. By the inno-
cency of your manners, and the integrity of your con-
duct, make the injustice of his language evident : by a
life free from reproach, destroy the pi'eju dices to which
he may have given rise against you : make the mean-
ness and the iniquity of his calumnies revert upon him-
self, by the practice of virtues, exactly opposite to the
faults which he imputes to you : this is the only just
and legal manner of revenging yourself. Triumph over
his malice, by your manners and by your silence : you
will heap living coals upon his head ; you will gain the
public on your side ; you will leave nothing to your en-
emy, but the infamy of his passion, and of his falsehood.
But to hate, is the revenge of the weak, and the sad
consolation of the guilty ; h\ a word, it is the only re-
fuge of those who can iind none in virtue, and in inno-
cence.
Let us now quit all these reasonings, and come to tlie
essential point. You are commanded to love those who
despitefully use and calumniate you ; to pray for them ;
to entreat of God to convert them, to change their ran-
corous heart, to inspire them with sentiments of peace
and charity, and to place them among the number of his
FOBGIVE.YESS OF lA'SUBlES. 4'â7
îîoly. You are comraanded to consider them as alrea-
dy citizens of the heavenly Jerusalem^ with whom you
shall form only one voice in singing the immortal praises
of grace. You are commanded to look upon injuries as
blessings, as the punishment of your hidden crimes, for
which you have so often merited to be covered with con-
fusion before men, and as the price of the king^dom or
Ood, which is promised to those alone, who bear with
piety, persecution and calumny.
For, after all, it must come to this. Self-love alone
would make us love those who love us, who praise us,
who publish our virtues, false or true ; this was the
whole virtue of the Pagans ; for, said Jesus Christ, i£
ye love those that love you, what reward have ye ; do-
not even the publicans so ? But religion goes farther : it
requires us to love those who hate and persecute us : It
fixes at that price the mercies of God upon us, and de=
clares to us, that no forgiveness is to be expected for
ourselves, if we grant it not to our brethren.
And, to speak with sincerity, would you have God to
forget the crimes and horrors of your whole life, and to
be insensible to his own glory, which you have so often
insulted, while you cannot prevail upon yourself to for-
get a word, while you are so warm, so delicate, and so
much alive to the interests of your glory ; you who per-
haps enjoy a reputation which you have never merited ;
you, who, were you to be known such as you are, would
be covered with eternal shame and confusion ; you, in a
word, whose hidden ciimes the most injurious language
only imperfectly represents, and of which God alone
knoweth the extent ? Great God ! how little shall sin-
ners have to say for themselves, when Thou wilt pro-
nounce against them the sentence of their eternal con^
demnation !
4S8 SERMO.Y Tn
You will probably tell us, that you perfectly agree "w ith
regard to the duties which religion imposes on this head,
but that the laws of honour have prevailed over those of
religion ; that, if language and proceedings of a certain
description be tranquilly submitted to, lasting dishonour
and infamy, in the eyes of men, must necessarily follow ;
that to forgive, through motives of religion, leaves nev-
ertheless a stain of cow ardice, which the world never
pardons, and that on this point, honour acknowledges
neither exception nor privilege.
What kind of honour, my brethren, must this be
which is to be bought only at the price of our souls, and
of our eternal salvation ? And how worthy of pity, are
those whom guilt alone can save from ignominy ! I
know that on this point the false laws of the world seem
to prevail over those of religion ; and that the wisest
tliemselves, who execrate this abuse, are, however, of
opinion that it must be submitted to. But I speak be-
fore a Prince, who, wiser than the world, and fdled
tvithajust indignation against a madness so contrary
to the maxims of the gospel, as well as to the interests
of the state, has shown to his subjects what is the true
honour, and who, in forcing criminal arms from their
hands, hath marked with lasting infamy those barba-
rous modes of revenge, to w hich the public error had at-
tached so deplorable a glory.
"What, my brethren, shall an abominable maxim,
which the barbarity of the early manners of our ances-
tors alone hath consecrated, and handed down to us,
prevail over all the rules of Christianity, and the most
inviolable laws of the state ! Shall it ])e accounted no
dishonour to bathe your hands in your brother's blood,
and yet be considered disgraceful to obey God, and
FORGlVEJ\rESS OF IjVJUHIES. 4^g
(he prince, who represents him on the earth ! Grlory
would then he only a species of madness, and cowar-
dice a nohle respect for religion, and for the laws,
l)o you dread the name of a coward ! Shew your
valour then by shedding your blood in the defence of
your country ; go and brave dangers at the head of our
armies, and there seek glory in the discharge of your
duty ; establish your reputation by actions worthy of
being ranked among the memorable events of so glorious
a reign ; this is the valour, which the state requires and
which religion authorizes. Despise then, these brutal
and personal acts of vengeance ; look upon them as a
childish ostentation of valour, which is often used as a
cover to actual cowardice, as the vile and vulgar refuge
of those wlio have nothing wherewith to signalize them-
selves, as a forced and equivocal proof of courage, which
the world wrests from us, and against which the heart
often revolts. Far from imputing shame to you, the
world itself will make it a fresh title of honour to you ;
you will be still more exalted in its opinion ; and you
will teach your equals, that misplaced valour is notliing
but a brutal fear; that wisdom and moderation ever
attend true glory ; that whatever dishonours humanity
can never do honour to men ; and that the gospel, which
inculcates and commands forgiveness, hath made more
heroes than the world itself, which preaches up re-
venge.
You will perhaps say that these maxims, have no
bearing upon you , that you have forgotten the subjects
of complaint wliich you had against your brother ; and
that a reconciliation hath put an end to your misunder-
standings and quarrels. Now, I say, that it is more es-
pecially on this pointy that you are grossly deceived }
43D SERMOJ^ XIV
andj after having shown to you the injustice of our an-
imosities^ it is my duty now to prove to you the hollow-
ness of our reconciliations.
Part IL There is not a precept in the law which
leaves less room for doubt or mistake, than that which
obliges us to love our brethren ; and, nevertheless^
there is none upon which more mistakes and false max-
ims are founded. In truth, there is scarcely a person
who does not say, that he has heartily forgiven his bro-
ther, and that his conscience is perfectly tranquil on that
head ; and, nevertheless, nothing is more rare than sin-
cere forgiveness, and there are few instances of a recon-
ciliation which changes the heart, and which is not
merely a false appearance of renewed amity ; whether
it be considered in its principle, or whether the proceed^
ings and consequences of it be examined.
I say, in its principle ; for, my bretheren, in order to
make a reconciliation sincere and real^ it is necessary
that it should take its source in charity, and in a Chris»
tian love of our brother. Now, human motives engross,
in general, a work which can be the work of grace a-
lone. A reconciliation takes place, for the sake of giv-
ing up to the pressing entreaties of friends ; in order to
avoid a certain disagreeable eclat, which would neces=
sarily follow an open hostility, and which might revert
upon ourselves ; in order that we may not exclude our-
selves from certain kinds of company, from which we
would be under the necessity of banisl.ing ourselves
were we obstinately to persist in a state of hostility to
our brother. A reconciliation takes place through de-
ference to the great, who exact of us that compliance;
in order to acquire a reputation for moderation and
IF'ORGIVEJ^ESS OF imURIES. 431
greatness of soul ; in order to avoid giving transactions
to the public vviiich would not correspond with that idea
which we would wish it to have of us ; in order, at once,
to cut short the continual complaints and the insulting
language of an enemy, who knows us perhaps only too
well, and who has once been too deep in our confi-
dence, not to merit some caution and deference on our
part, and that, by a reconciliation, we should endeavour
to silence him. But above all : We are reconciled per-
haps like Saul, in order more securely to ruin our en=
emy, and to lull liis vigilance and precautions.
Such are in general, the motives of those reconcilia-
tions which every day take place in the world. As a
proof of the correctness of what I say, you may observe
that sinners who show no sign of piety on any other oc-
casion, are, however, reconciled to their brethren in dai-
ly instances ; and they who cannot prevail over them-
selves in the easiest duties of a Christian life, appear as
heroes in the accomplishment of this one, which, of all
others, is the most difficult. Alas ! it is because they
are heroes of vanity and not of charity : it is, because
they leave tliat part of the reconciliation which alone is
heroical and arduous in the sight of God, an oblivion
namely of the past injury, and a total revolution of our
heart towards our brother ; and they retain of it only
that part which is glorious in the sight of men, that is
an appearance of moderation, and a readiness towards
amity, which the world itself praises and admires.
But, if the greater part of reconciliations turn out to
be false when these motives are examined, they are not
less so, if we consider them in their proceedings. Yes
my brethren, what measures and négociations do we
not observe ! What formalities and solicitudes in con^
clading them 1 What attentions to bestow, and cautions
to observe ! What interests to conciliate, obstacles to
remove, and steps to accomplish ! Thus your reconcil-
iation is not the work of charity, but of the wisdom and
skill of your friends ; it is a worldly aflair, not a
religious step; it is a treaty happily concluded, not
a duty of faith fulfilled ; it is the work of man, but
it is not the deed of God : in a word, it is a peace
which comes from the earth, it is not the peace of
Heaven.
For, honestly, have men been able, through their ar^
rangements and the ingenuity of their measures, in re-
conciling you with your brother, to revive that charity
which was extinguished in your heart? Have they
been able to restore that treasure to you which you had
lost? They have succeeded, indeed, in terminating the
scandal of declared enmity, and in establishing between
you and your brother the outward duties of society ; but
they have not changed your heart, which God alone
can do ; they have not extinguished that hatred, which
grace alone can extinguish. You are therefore reconci-
led, but you still love not your brother ; and, indeed,
if you sincerely loved him, would so many mediators
have been required to reconcile you ? Love is its own
mediator and interpreter. Charity is that brief word
which would have saved your friends those endless
toils which tliey have been obliged to employ in or-
der to reclaim you : it is not so cautious ; it frankly
confesses what it sincerely feels. Now, before giving
way, you have insisted upon a thousand conditions ;
you have disputed every step ; you have been resolute
iii not going beyond a certain point ; you have required
that vour brother should make tjie first advances to-
rORGIVEJSTESS OF IjYJURIES. 433
%vaids meeting you. Charity knows nothing of all these
rules ; it hath only one, and that is, oblivion of injury,
and to love our brother as ourself.
I grant that certain prudential measures are to be
observed, and that too hasty or illtinied advances might
often be not only unsuccessful, but even the means of
hardening your brother still more agahist you. But I
say that charity ought to regulate these measures, and
not vanity : 1 say, and 1 repeat it, that all these recon-
ciliations which are with such difficulty concluded, where
both parties are resolute in yielding only to a certain
point, and even that with precautions so strict and pre=
cise, and where so many expedients and so much mystery
are necessary, are the fruits of earthly prudence ; they
correct the manners, but they affect not the heart ; they
bring nearer the persons, but not the affections ; they
re-establish civilities, but leave the same sentiments ; in
a word, they terminate the scandal of hatred, but not
the sin. Thus Jesus Christ plainly commands us to go
our w ay and be reconciled to our brother. He does
not tell us, go not too far, lest your brother take advan-
tage by it ; be first convinced that he will meet you half-
way ; seek not after him, lest he consider your procee-
ding as an apology for his complaints, as a tacit acknow-
ledgement of your blame, and a sentence proijounced
against yourself. Jesus Christ plainly tells us : Go
thy way and be reconciled to thy brother. He desires
that the reconciliaton should take place through charity
alone ; he supposes, that, in order to love our brother,
"we have no occasion for mediators, and that our hearts
should be fully capable of every thing required, without
any foreign interference.
Such are the steps of reconciliation 5 the motivea-of
Vol. J. 5^
^g4 :^EiiJJOjy XÎV.
whicli being almost always human, aiul the pioeeedings
faulty, their consequences can he only vain and of no ef-
fect. I say the consequences ; for, my brethren, iti
what do the far greater part of those reconciliations ter-
minate which every day take place in the world ? What
is the fruit of them? What is that which is commonly
called a reconciliation with our enemy ? 1 shall explain
it to you.
You say, in the first place, That you are reconciled
to your brother, and that you have heartily forgiven him ;
but, that you have taken your resolution to see him do
more, and henceforth to have no further intercourse with
him : And, upon this footing, you live tranquil ; yoti
believe that nothing more is prescribed by the gospel,
and that a confessor hath no title to demand more. JNow
I tell you that you have not forgiven your brother, and
that you are still, with respect to him, in hatred, in death,
and in sin.
For I aslc you : Do we dread the sight of those we
love ? And, if your enemy be now your brother, what
can there be so hateful and so disagreeable to you in his
presence? You say that you have forgiven, and that
you love him ; but, in order to avoid all accidents, and
that his presence may not arouse vexatious ideas, you
find it more proper to exclude yourself from it. But
what is that kind of love which the mere presence of the
beloved object irritates against it, and inflames with ha-
tred and wrath ? You love him ! That is to say, that
perhaps you would not wish to injure, or to destroy him.
But that is not enough ; religion commands you likewise
to love him : for honour, indolence, moderation, fear,
and want of opportunity, are sufficient inducements to
prevent you from injuring him , but you must be Chris-
FORGIVE.rESS OF LYJURIES 435-
lian to love liioi; and that is precisely what you areuot
willing to be.
And, candidly., would you wish God to love you, up»
on the condition that He should never see you ? Would
you be satisfied with his goodness, and with his mercy,
were He for ever to banish you from his presence? For
you well know that He will treat you, as you shall have
treated your brother. Would you think yourself much
in favour with the prince, were he to forbid you ever to
present yourself before him ? You constantly say, that
a man is in disgrace, when lie is no longer permitted to
appear before tlie master ; and yet you pretend to per-
suade us that you love your brother, and that no ran-
cour remains in your heart against him, while his mere
presence displeases and irritates you.
And what less equivocal mark can be given of ani-
mosity against your brother, than that of being unable
to endure Ms presence ? It is the very extreme of hatred
and rancour. For many settled hatreds exist, which
yet are kept under a kind of check, are, as far as pos-
sible, concealed, and even borrow the outward sem-
blance of friendship and of decency, and, though unable
to reconcile the heart to duty, y<et have sufficient com-
mand over themselves, to preserve appearances to the
world. But your hatred is beyond all restraint; it
knows neither prudence, caution, nor decency ; and yet
, you pretend to persuade us that it is now no more ! You
still show the most violent proofs of animosity, and even
these you would have us to consider as the indubitable
signs of a Christian and sincere love !
But, besides — are Christians made to live estranged,
and unconnected with each other? Christians! The
members of one body, the children of the same Fathei\
f36 ■:>EJi.MOJ^' AIV.
the dis'ciples of the same Master, the inheritors of the
sanre kingdom, the stones of the same huilding, the par-
ticles of the same mass ! Christians ! who live in the
participation of the same spirit, of the same redemption,
and of the same righteousness ! Christians ! Sprung from
one bosom, regenerated in the same holy water, incor-
porated in the same church, redeemed by one ransom-
are they made to avoid each other, to consider as a pun-
ishment the seeing each other, and to be unable to en-
dure each other ? Every thing in religion binds and u-
nites us together ; the sacraments in which we join, the
public prayers and thanksgivings which we sing, the
ceremonies of tliat worship in which we pride ourselves,
the assembly of believers at which we assist ; all these
externals are only symbols of that union which ties ns
together. Religion itself is but one holy society, a di-
vine communication of prayers, of sacrifices, of works,
and of well-doings. Every thing connects and unites
us, every thing tends to make of our brethren and of us,
only one family, one body, one heart, and on« soul; and
you notwithstanding this, believe that you love your
brother, and that you preserve, with respect to him, all
the most sacred ties of religion, while you break through
even those of society, and cannot even endure his pre-
sence ?
I say much more : How shall you indulge the same
hope with him ? For, by that common hope, you are to
live eternally with him, to make his happiness your
own, to enjoy with him eternal felicity, to be reunited
with him in the bosom of God, and with him to sing the
eternal praises of grace. Ah ! How could the hope of
being for ever united with him be the sweetest consola-
tion of your life, if it appear so desirable to live ia Sep-
FORGIVEJ^'ESS OF IMJURIEs 437
aration from him^ and if you find even his presence a
punishment ? Renourve then the promises and the hopes
of faith ; separate yourself as an outlaw from the com-
munion of believers ; interdict to yourself the altar and
the awful mysteries ; banish yourself from the assembly
of the holy ; no longer come there to ofler up your gifts
and your prayers, since all these religious duties, which
suppose you in union with your brother, become mock-
eries if you be not so, depose against you in the face of
the altars, and proclaim to you to quit the holy assem-
bly as a publican and a sinner.
Perhaps, alarmed at these holy truths, you may final-
ly say, that you will so far conquer yourself as to see
your brother, and to live on good terms with him ; that
you will not be wanting in civilities ; but that, for the
rest, you knov/ where to stop, and that lie ouglit not to
count much upon your frienddiip.
You will not be wanting in civilities ! And that, my
dear hearer, you think, is to pardon and to be reconciled
with your brother, and to love him as yourself? No !
that charity which the gospel commands is in the heart;
it is not a simple decorum, a vain exteriour, an useless
ceremony ; it is real feeling, and an active love ; it is a
sincere tenderness, ever ready to manifest itself in ac-
tions. You love as a Jew and as a Pharisee, but you
love not as a Christian and as a disciple of Jesus Christ.
The law of charity is the law of the heart; it regulates
the feelings, changes the inclinations, and pours the oil
of peace and love over the wounds of an angry and
mortified disposition ; you nevertheless turn it into a
law wholly external, a pharisaical and superficial law,
which regulates only the outside, which settles only the
inanners^ and is fulfilled by vain appearances,
43g SERMOJV XTV-
But you are not commanded merely to refrain froiu
wounding the laws of courtesy, aud to pay your brother
all those duties which society mutually imposes ; it is
the world which prescribes this law ; these are its rule«
aud customs. But Jesus Christ commands you to love
him ; and, while your heart is estranged from him, it is
of little importance that you keep up the vain externals
of courtesy. You refuse to religion the essential part ;
and the only difference between you and those sinners
who persist in not seeing their brethren, is, that you
know how to constrain yourself in order to please the
world, and you know not how to thwart yourself in or-
der to obtain salvation.
And no doubt, my brethren, if men were united to»
gethcr by the ties of society alone, they would discharge
their duty, by keeping up all the externals of politeness,
and by maintaining that mutual commerce of cares, at-
tentions, and courtesies, which constitute, as it were, the
whole harmony of the body politic. But we are united
together by tlie isacred and close ties of faith, of hope, of
charity, and of religion. In the midst of the world we
form a society internal and holy, of which charity is the
invisible bond, and altogether distinct from that civil so-
ciety which legislators have established. Consequent-
ly, by fulfilling with regard to your brethren the exter-
nal courtesies of the ^^ orld, you satisfy the claims which
civil society hath upon you, but you do not fulfil those
of religion : you disturb not the political order, but you
overturn the order of charity ; you are a peaceable citi-
zen, but you are not a citizen of heaven ; you are a man
of the world, but you are not a man of the world to come;
society may acquit you^ and demand no more, but what
you do is a blank in the sight of Grod, because you arc
FOEGirEJi'ESS OF JJ^JUEIE&:. 439
îiot ill charity ; and your condemnation is certain. Say
then if you can after this, that you will not be wanting
ÎU decorum, and that religion exacts no more of us. It
exacts then only dissimulation, externals, and vain ap-
pearances ! It exacts then nothing true, nothing real, no-
thing which changes the heart ! And the great precept
of charity, which alone gives reality to all our works,
would then be only a false pretence, and a vain hypoc-
TÎsy !
And trust not merely to us on this point ; consult the
public itself. See if, in spite of all the appearances
which you still keep up with your brother, it be not an
established opinion in the world that you love him not ;
and if the w orld do not act in consequence of that per-
suasion. See if your dependents, if all who approach
and who are attached to you, do not affect to keep at a
distance from your brother. See if all those who hate
him, or who are in interests opposite to his, do not court
your friendship and form closer ties with you, and if
all those who are inimical to your brother do not pro-
fess themselves your friends. See if those who have
favours to expect from you do not begin by forsaking
him, and if they do not think that in so doing they are
paying court to you. You see that the world knows
you better than you know yourself ; that it is not mista-
ken in your real seutiments ; and that, in spite of these
vain shows towards your brother, you are actually in
hatred and in death, and that in this respect the world
itself is of our opinion ; that world, which, on every o»
iher occasion, we have constantly to combat.
Thus therefore terminate the greater part of the recon-
ciliations which are every day made in the world. Men
see each other aigain^ but they are not re-united ; they
440 ^ àEiiMo:\' xn\
promise a mutual friendship, but it is never given ; their
persons meet, but their hearts are always estranged ;
and I should be in the right were I to say, that hatreds
are unchangeable, and that almost all reconciliations are
mere pretences ; that the injury may be forgiven, but
tlrat the offender is never loved ; that men may cease to
treat their brother as an enemy, but that they never re-
gard him as a brother.
And, obseive what takes place every day before our
eyes. In the world are to be seen public characters,
families of illustrious names, .vho still preserve with
each otlier certain measures of decency, which they can-
not indeed break through without scandal, yet, live nev-
ertheless, in different interests, in public and avowed
sentiments of envy, jealousy, and mutual animosity; who
thwart and do every thing in their power to ruin each
other, view each other with the most jealous eyes, and
make all their creatures partisans in their resentments
and aversions ; divide the world, the court, and the city ;
interest the public in their quarrel, and establish in the
^vorld the opinion and the scandal that they hate each
other, that they would mutually destroy each other, that
they still, it is true, keep up appearances, but that, at
bottom, their interest and affections are for ever estran-
ged. Yet, notwithstanding all this, each party lives in
a reputation of piety, and of the. practice of good works ;
they have distinguished and highly esteemed confessors :
and notwithstanding that they mutually discharge to-
wards each other certain duties, yet otherwise live in a
public and avowed hostility ; they frequent the sacra-
ments, they are continually in the intercourse of holy
things, they coolly approach the altar, they often pre-
sent themselves without scruple at the penitential tribu-
FORGlVEJ\rESS OF LYJUBIES. 44)4
nal, where, far from confessing their liatred before the
Lord, and weeping over the scandal with which it afflicts
the people, they make fresh complaints against their en-
emy ; they accuse him, instead of accusing themselves ;
they make a boast of the vain external duties which they
.pay to him, and allege them as marks of the heart not
being rancorous. What shall I say ? The very ministers
of penitence, who should have been the judges of our
hatred, frequently become its apologists, take part witli
the public, enter into all tiie animosity and prejudices
of their penitents, proclaim the justice of their quarrel,
and are the cause that the only remedy destined to
strike at the root of the evil, answers no other purpose
than that of decorating it with the appearance of godli-
ness, antl of rendering it still more incurable.
Great God ! Thou alone canst heal the \vound which
a too proud sensibility hath nade in my heart, by nour-
ishing unreasonable and iniquitous feelings of hatred,
which have corrupted it in thy sight. Enable me to for-
get fleeting and momentary injuries, in order that Thou
may est forget the crimes of my whole life. Is it for me, O
God ! to be so sensible and so implacable at the sligh-
test insults — I, who have such necessity for thy mercy
and indulgence ? Are tlue injuries of which I complain
to be compared with those with w hich I have a thou-
sand times dishonoured thy eternal majesty? Must the
worm of the earth be irritated and inflamed at the smal-
lest marks of disdain, while thy sovei*eign greatness
hath so long, and with so much goodness, endured his
rebellion and his offences ?
Who am I, that am so keen upon the interests of my
own glory ; I, who dare not in Thy presence cast mine
f»yes upon ray secret ignominy ; I who would deserve
Vol. T. ' a4*
4iê SBIiMOJV Xlf.
\o be the reproach of men, and the outcast of my people^
I who have nothing praise worthy, according even to
the opinion of the world, but the good fortune of having
concealed from it my infamy and my weaknesses ; I to
whom the most biting reproaches would still be too gen-
tle, and indulgent ; I, in a word, who have no salvation
now to hope, if thou forgettest not thine own glory, which
I have so often insulted !
But no, great God ! thy glory is in pardoning the sin-
ner, and mine shall be in forgiving my brother. Ac-
cept, O Lord, this sacrifice which I make to thee of my
resentments. Estimate not its value by the slightness
of the injuries which I forget, but by that pride which
had magnified them, and had rendered me so feeling to
them. And, seeing thou hast promised to forgive us
our trespasses when we shall have forgiven the trespas-
ses of our brethren ; fulfil, O Lord, thy promises. It is
in this hope tliat I presume to reckon upon Thine eter-
nal mercies.
( 443^- ;^
SERMON XV.
THE WOMAN WHO WAS A SINNEE
:mu
Luke vii. 37.^
^dnd behold a woman in the city, ivMch was a sinnen
when $he knew thsd Jesus sat at meat in the Phari-
see's house, brought an alabaster-box of ointment , and
stood at his feet behind Him weeping, and be^an to
wash his feet with tears, and did wipe them with the
hairs of her head, and kissed his feet, and anointed
them with the ointments
From tears so abundant, a confasion ao sincere, and
a proceeding so humiliating and uncommon ; it may easi»
ly be comprehended, how great must once have been ths
influence of the passions over the heart of this sinner^
and what grace now operates within her. Palestins
had long beheld her as the shame and reproach of the
city ; the Pharisee's household this day beholds her as
the glory of grace, and a model of penitence : What a
change, and what a spectacle !
4;44 HEliMOJ^ XV.
Fettered, but a moment ago, with the most shameful
and the most indissohible chains ; she now finds nothing
capable of stopping her, and flies without hesitation, to
seek, at the feet of Jesus Christ, her salvation and de-
liverance : plunged hitherto in the senses, and living to-
tally for Yoluptuousuess, she in a moment sacrifices
their liveliest charms, and their dearest ties : lastly, im-
patient till then of every yoke, acknowledgiug no other
rule than the caprice of her inclinations, she commences
her penitence by the most humiliating proceedings, and
the most melancholy offices of servitude. How admira-
ble, 0 my God, are the works of thy grace ! How near
to its cure is the most hopeless wretch ^*duess, when once
it becomes the object of thine infinite mercies ! And how
rapid and shortened are the ways by which Thou dost
conduct thy chosen !
But whence comes it, my brethren, that such great
examples make so trifling an impression upon us ? It ari-
ses from two prejudices, apparently the most opposite to
each other, which nevertheless, proceed from the same
principle, and lead to the same error.
The first is, that we figure to ourselves that conver-
sion of the heart required by God, as merely a cessation
of guilt, tlie abstaining from certain excessive irregular-
ities, which even decency itself holds out as improper.
And, as we are at last brought to that, either by age,
change of situation, or even our own inclinations, which
time alone has changed, we never think of going farther;
we believe that all is completed, and we listen to the
history of the most affecting conversions held out to us
by the church, as to lessons which no longer, in any de-
gree, regard us.
The second goes to another cxtiema : we represent
THE WOMAJsr WHO WAS A SIJVJVER. 445
Christian penitence to ourselves, as a frightful situation,
and the last resort of human weakness ; a state without
comfort or consolation, and attended by a thousand du-
ties, every one more disgusting than the other to the
heart ; and terrified in consequence of this gloomy im-
age, the examples of a change find us little disposed to
be affected, because they always find us discouraged.
Now, the conversion of this sinner confutes these two
prejudices, so dangerous in regard to our salvation, isty
Her penitence not only terminates her errors, but it like-
wise expiates and makes reparation for them. Mhjy
Her penitence begins, it is true, in tears and sorrow ;
but it is likewise the commenc*ement to her of new plea-
sures. Whatever she had despoiled Jesus Christ of in
her errors, she restores to him in her penitence : this is
her reparation ! but with Jesus Christ, she finds, hi her
penitence, that peace and those comforts which she had
never experienced in her errors : this is her consolation !
The repajation, and the consolation of her penitence,
form tlie whole history of her conversion, and the sub-
ject of this discourse.
Part I. The office of penitence, says St. Augustin,
is to establish order wherever sin hath introduced cor-^
ruption. It is false, if it be not universal , for order re-
suits only from a perfect subordination of the desires and
emotions which spring up in our hearts ; every thing
must be in its place, in order that that divine harmony,
which sin had disturbed, may be restored ; and, while
the smallest particle there remains deranged, you in vain
labour to repair the rest ; you only rear up an edifice,
which being improperly arranged, is continually giving
way in some of its parts, and confusio^i and disorder
prevail through the whole.
446 SERMON XV.
Now, belioid the important instruction held out j;o Ms
in the conversion of this sinner ! Her sin comprised sev=
eral disorders : In the first place. An iniquitous use of
her heart, which had never been taken up but with cre-
ated beings. Secondly, A criminal abuse of all natural
gifts, which she had made the instruments of her pas*
sions : Thirdly, A shameful abasement of her senses,
which she had always made contribute to her voluptu-
ousness^ and ignominy : Lastly, An universal scandal in.
the notoriety of her errors. Her penitence makes repa-
ration for all these disorders : all, cons-equently, are for^
given, for nothing is neglected in the repentance.
I say, In the first place, an iniquitous use of her heart*
Yes, my brethren, every love, which has for its object
only the creature, degrades our heart : it is a disorder,.
U) love for itself that which can neitlier be our happiness
nor our perfection, nor, consequently, our ease. For to
love, is to seek our felicity in that which we love ; it is
the hope of finding in tlie object beloved, whatever is
wanting to our heart ; it is the calling it to aid against
that shocking void which we feel within ourselves, in
the confidence that they will be able to fill it : to love,
is to look upon tlie object beloved as our resource a»
gainst all our wants, the cure of all our evils, and the
author of all our good. Now, as it is in God alone that
we can find all these advantages, it is a disorder, and a
debasement of the heart, to seek for them in a vile crea-
ture.
And, at the bottom of our hearts wc feel sensibly our^
selves the injustice of that love : however passionate it
be, we quickly discover in the beings which inspire it,
Aveakncssos and defects which render them unworthy of
it : we soon find them out to be unjust, fanciful, false.
THE WOM^JSr WHO WAS A SIMMER. 4^^
vain, and inconstant : the deeper we examine them, the
more we say to ourselves, that our heart has been de-
^îeived, and that this is not the object which it sought.
Our reason inwardly blushes at the weakness of our
passion ; we no longer submit to our chains, but with
pain ; our passion becomes our burden and our punish-
ment. But punished, without being undeceived in our
error, we seek, in a change, a remedy for our mistake :
we wander from object to object, and if some one at
last happen to fix us, it is not that we are satisfied with
our choice, but that we are tired of our inconstancy.
The sinner of whom we are speaking, had wandered
in these paths : iniquitous love had been the cause of all
her misfortunes, and of all her crimes ; and, born to love
Ood alone, He alone it was whom she had never loved.
But scarcely hath she known him, says the gospel, when
blushing at the meanness of her former passions, she
acknowledges him alone to be worthy of her heart ;
in created beings, every thing appears to her empty,
false, and disgusting : far from finding those charms,
from which her heart had formerly with such difficulty
defended itself; she now sees in them, only their frivoli-
ty, their danger, and their vanity. The Lord alone, in
her sight, appears good, real, faithful, constant to his
promises, magnificent in his gifts, true in his affection,
indulgent even in his anger ; alone suflScieutly great to
fill tl»e whole immensity of our heart ; alone sufficiently
powerful to satisfy all its desires ; alone sufficiently
generous to soften all its distresses ; alone immortal,
and who shall forever be loved : lastly, to love whom,
can be followed by no other repentance than that of ha-
ving loved him too late.
Jt is love therefore, my brethren, which makes true
44S ^^ermojY x\\
peDÎtents ; For penitence is only a cbangiug of the
heart ; and the heart does not change, but in changing
its love : penitence is only the re-establishment of order
in man ; and man is only in order when he loves the
Lord, for whom he is made ; penitence is only a recon-
ciliation with God ; and youi' reconciliation is fictitious,
if you do not restore to him your heart ; in a word, pen-
itence obtains the Remission of sins, and sins are remitted
only in proportion to our love.
Let us no longer hear then, my brethren, when we
hold out these great examples for your imitation, that
you do not feel yourselves born for devotion, and that
your heart is of such a nature, that every thing which
is demominated piety, is disagreeable to it. What, my
dear hearer, your heart is not made for loving its God !
Your heart is not made for the Creator who hath given
it to you ! What — You are born then for vanity and
falsehood ! Has your heart, so great, so exalted^
and which nothing here below can satisfy, been bes-
towed on you, merely for pleasures which weary you,
for creatures which deceive you, for honours which
embarrass you, and for a world which tirçs or disgusts
you ? And shall God alone, for whom you are made,
and who hath made you what you are, find nothing for
himself in the principle of your being ? Ah ! You are
unjust towards your own heart : You know not yourself
and you take your corruption for yourself. And indeed,
if not born for virtue, what can be the melancholy mys-
tery of your lot ? For what are you born ? Wliat a chim-
era then are you among men ? You are born it would
seem, only for remorse, and gloomy care ! Has the au-
thor of your being drawn you from nothing, only to ren-
der you miserablô ? Are you gifted with a heart, only
THE WOMAJ\r WHO WAS A SIJ\WER. 44.9
to pursue an happiness, which is either visionary, or
flies from you, and to be a continual burden to your-
self?
O man 1 open thine eyes ; fatliom to tlie bottom the
destiny of thy heart, and thou wilt acknowledge that
these turbulent passions, which till thee with such repug-
nance to virtue, are foreign to thy nature ; that such is
not the natural state of thy heart ; that the Author of na-
ture and of grace had bestowed on thee a more sublime
lot ; that thou wert born for order, for righteousness, and
for innocence ; that thou hast corrupted an happy na-
ture, by turning it towards iniquitous passions ; and
that, if not born for virtue, we know not what thou art^
and thou becomest incomprehensible to thyself.
But you are mistaken, when you consider, as inclina-
tions incompatible with piety, those warm propensities
towards pleasure which are born with you. From thh
instant that grace shall have sanctified them, they will
become dispositions favourable for salvation. The more
you are animated in the pursuit of the world and its
false pleasures, the more eager shall you be for the Lord,
and for true riches ; the more you have been found ten-
der and feeling by created beings, the easiei- shall be the
access of grace to your heart : in pi'oportion as your na-
ture is haughty, proud, and aspiriiig ; the more will you
serve the Lord, without fear, without disguise, and with-
out meanness : the more your character now appears
easy, light, and inconstant ; the easier it will be for you
to withdraw yourself from your criminal attachments,
and to return to your God. Lastly, your passions them-
selves, if I may venture so to speak, will become the
means of facilitating your penitence. * Whatever had
been the occasion of your destruction, you will render it
Vol. L 55
4^ suumojX XV.
conducive towiuds your salvation ; you ^^\\\ see and ac-
knowledge, that to have received a tender, faithful, and
generous heart, is to have been born for piety, and that
a heart which creatures have been able to touch, holds
out great and favourable dispositions towards grace.
Peruse what remains to us of the history of tlie just,
and you will see that those who have at first been drag»
ged away by mad passions, who were born with every
talent calculated for the world, with propensities towards
pleasures, the most remote from every thing pious; have
been those in whom grace hath operated the most won-
derful change. Aiul, without mentioning the sinner of
this day's gospel, the Augustins, the Pelagius', the
Fabioles'; those worldly and dissipated souls, so obsti-
nate and rooted in their debaucheries, and so diametri-
cally opposite, it would seem, to piety ; what progress
have they not since made in the ways of God ? Their
former propensities, have, as I may say, only paved the
Way for their penitence. The same soil which nourish-
es and produces great passions, gives birth likewise to
the greatest ^ irtues, when it pleases the Lord to change
the lieart. My God ! Thou hast made us all for thee,
and in the incomprehensible arrangement of thy Provi-
dence, and of thy mercy towards man, even our weak-
nesses are to conduce towards our sanctification. It
is thus, that the woman who was a sinner made re-
paratiou, for the iniquitous use she had made of her
heart.
But, Secondly, The love which she had for Jesus
Christ was not one of those vain and indolent sensibili-
ties, which are rather the natural emotions of an lieart
easily aflected^han the real impressions of grace, and
which never produce any tiling iu us, further than that
THE irOJLLV IVHO U\iS A SIJSTJVER. ^gl
«f rendering us satisfied with ourselves, and persuading
ns that our heart is changed : for the sacrifices, and not
the feelings, prove the reality of love.
The second disorder therefore, of her sin bavins: been
tbe criminal and almost universal abuse of all created
things ; the second reparation of ber penitence, is tbe
rigorously abstaining from all wbich she had abused in
her errors. Her hair, her perfumes, the gifts of body and
of nature, bad been tbe instruments of her pleasures,
(for no one can be ignorant of the use to whicb a deplo-
rable passion can apply them,) and this is tbe first step
of her penitence : tbe perfumes are abandoned, and even
consecrated to a holy ministry : her hair is neglected,
and no longer serves but to wipe the feet of ber deliver-
er ; beauty, and every attention to tbe body are forgot-
ten, and her eyes are blinded with tears. Such are the
first sacrifices of ber love : she is not contented witb
giving up cares visibly criminal, she even sacrifices such
as migbt have been looked upon as innocent, and thinks,
that the most proper way of puuisbing the abuse she
had formerly made of tliem, is to deprive herself of the
liberty she might still bave had of employing them.
In effect, by having once abused them, tlie sinner
loses the right be bad over them ; what is permitted to
an innocent soul, is no longer allowed to him who has
been so unhappy as to deviate from the right path : Sin
Tenders us, as it were, cut off from all creatures around
us, and wbich the Lord had destined to our use. Thus,
there are rules for the unfaithful, not made for otlier men :
lie no longer enjoys, as 1 may say, the common right,
and be must no more judge of his duties by the general
maxims, but by the personal exceptions which concern
him*
Now, upon this principle you are continually asking,
if the use of such and such an artifice in dpess be a
crime? If such and such public pleasures be forbidden?
I mean not here to decide for others ; but I ask of you
ivho maintain their innocency, whether you have never
made a bad use of them ? Have you never made these
cares of the body, these amusenjents, and these artifices,
instrumental towards iniquitous passions ? Have you
never employed them in corrupting hearts, or in nour-
ishing the corruption of your own ? What I Your entire
life has perhaps been one continued and deplorable
chain of passions and evils ; you have abused every
thing around you, and have made them instrumental to
your irregular appetites ; you have called them all in to
aid that unfortunate tendency of your heart ; your inten-
tions have even exceeded your evil ; your eye hath ne^
ver been innocent, and you would willingly never have
had tliat of others to have been so with regard to you ;
all your cares for your person, have been crimes ; and
when it is proposed to you to return to your God, and
to make reparation for a whole life of corruption and
debauchery, you pretend to dispute with him for vani-
ties, of which you have always made so infamous an
use ! You pretend to maintain the innocency of a thou-
sand abuses, which, though permitted to the rest of men,
would be forbidden to you ! You enter into argument,
when it is intended to restrict you from the criminal
pomps of the world ! You, to whom the most innocent,
if such there be, are forbidden, in future, and whose on-
ly dress ought henceforth to be sackcloth and ashes ;
can you still pretend to justify cares, which are the
cause of your inward shame, and which have so often
covered vou with confusion at the feet of the sacred tri-
THE WOMAJ\r WHO WAS A SLYJ^ETi. 45g
bunal ? And should so much argument, and so many
explanations be required, where your own slmme alone
âhoiild amply suffice ?
Besides, the holy melancholy of piety, looks with
horror upon that which has once been a stumbling-block
to us. The contrite Christian examines not whether he
may innocently indulge in it ; it is sufficient for him to
know, that it has a thousand times been the rock upon
which he has seen his innocence split. Whatever has
been instrumental in leading him to his evils, becomes
equally odious in his sight, as the evils themselves ;
whatever has been assisting in his passions, he detests
equiiUy with the passions themselves ; whatever, in a
word, has been favourable to his crimes, becomes crimi-
nal in his eyes. Should it even happen that he f'
be disposed to accord it to his weakness, ah ! his zeal
and remorse would reject the indulgence, and would a-
dopt the interests of God's righteousness against men ;
he could not prevail upon himself to permit abuses^
which would be the means of recalling to him his past
disorders ; he would always entertain a dread that the
same manner of acting might recall the same disposi-
tions, and that, engrossed by the same cares, his heart
would find itself the same ; the mere image of his past
infidelities disturbs and alarms him ; and, far from bear-
ing about with him their sad remains, he would wish to
have it in his power to remove even from the spots, and
to tear himself from the occupations, which rene\v their
remembrance. And, surely, what kind of penitence
must that be, which still permits us to love all those
things which have been the occasion of our greatest
crimes ? And, while yet dripping from a shipwreck, can
we too strenuously form the resolution of for ever shun-
454; sehmojx xv
ning those rocks upon wliicli we had so lately split?
Lastly, true penitence causes us to find every where
subjects for a thousand invisible sacrifices. It does not
confine itself to certain essential privations ; every thing
which flatters the passions, every thing which nourishes
a sensual life, every superfluity which tends solely
to the gratification of self-love, becomes the subject of
its sacrifices ; and, like a sharp and grievous sword, it
every where makes divisions and separations painful to
the heart, and cuts even to the quick, whatever ap-
proaches too near to the corruption of our propensities.
The grace of compunction at once leads the contrite to
this point ; it renders him ingenious in punishing him^
self, and arranges matters so well, that every thing
serves in expiation of his crimes ; that duties, social in-
tercourse, honours, prosperity, and the cares attendant
upon his station, become opportunities of proving his
merit ; and that even his pleasures, through the circum-
spection and faith with which they are accompanied,
become praiseworthy and virtuous actions.
Behold the divine secret of penitence ! As it performs
here below, says Tertullian, the office of God's justice
towards the criminal soul ; and as the justice of God
shall one day punish tlic guilt by the eternal privation
of all things which the sinner hath abused, penitence
anticipates that terrible judgment ; it every where impo-
ses on itself the most rigorous privations ; and if the
miserable condition of human life render the use of pre-
sent things still requisite, it employs them much less to
flatter than to punish the senses, by the sober and aus-
tere manner in which it applies them.
You have only to calculate on this ground the trutli
of your penitence. In vain do you appear to have left
TUE WOMAJsT WHO WAS A SIjYjXER. <!^^S
off IJhe brutal gratification of tlie passion s, if the same
pomp and splendour are requisite towards satisfying
that natural inclination, which courts distinction through
a display of vain magnificence ; which enjoys the same
profusions, in consequence of not having the courage to
deprive self-love of accustomed superfluities^ the same
pleasures, in consequence of being unable to do without
them ; and the same advantages on the part of fortune,
in consequence of the continual desire of rising superior
to others : in a word, if you can part with nothing, you
exclude yourself from nothing ; even admitting that all
those attachments which you still preserve may not
be absolute crimes, your heart is not penitent ; your
manners are apparently different, but all your passions
are still the same ; you are apparently changed, but you
are not converted. How rare, my brethren, are true
penitents Î How common are vain and superficial con»
versions ! And how many souls, changed in the eyes of
the world, shall one day find themselves unchanged be-
fore God 1
But it is not enough to have attained to that degree of
self-denial, which keeps us without the circle of guilt ;
those laborious atonements must likewise be added,
which wash out its stains. Thus, in the third place, the
sinner of our text is not contented with having sacrificed
her hair and perfumes to Jesus Christ ; she prostrates
herself at his feet, she washes them with her tears, slie
wipes, she kisses them : and, as the third disorder of
her sin had been a shameful subjection of her senses,
she begins the reparation of those criminal acts of lewd-
ness, by the humiliation and disgust of these lowly ser-
vices.
From tliis we derive a new source of instruction, th^t
'156 &EiiJJOjY XV.
it is not sufficient to remove from the passions those al-
lurements which incite them ; it is likewise necessary
that we should u^e the most laborious exertions of such
virtues as are most opposite to them, in order insensibly
to repress, and recall them to duty and order. You
were fond of gaming, pleasures, amusements, and every
thing which composes a worldly life ; it is doing little
to cut off from these pleasures that portion which may
still conduct to guilt ; if you wish that the love of the
world should be extinguished in your heart, it is neces-
sary that prayer, retirement, silence, and acts of charity,
should succeed to these dissolute manners: and that,
not satisfied with shunning the crimes of the world, you
should likewise fly from the world itself. By giving
yourself up to boundless and shameful passions, you
have fortiaed the empire of the senses and of the flesh ;
it is necessary that fasting, watching, and the yoke of
mortification should gradually extinguish these inipure
fires, weaken these tendencies which now become ungov-
ernable through a long indulgence of voluptuousness,
and not only remove guilt from you, but operate, as I
may say, to dry up its source in your heart. Otherwise,
by sparing, you only render yourself more miserable ;
the old attachments which you shall have broken with-
out having weakened, and, as it were, rooted them from
your heart by mortification, will be incessantly renew-
ing their attacks ; your passions, become more violent
and impetuous by being checked and suspended, with-
out your having weakened and overcome them, will
make you undergo agitations and storms, such as you
had never experienced even in guilt : you will behold
yourself every moment, on the point of a melancholy
shipwreck; and you will never taste of peace in this
THE WOMAJ^ WHO WJS A SljXJVER. 457
new life. You will find yourself more weak, more ex-
hausted, more animated for pleasure, more easy to be
shaken, and more disgusted with the service of God, in
this state of imperfect penitence, than you had formerly
been even in the midst of dissipation : every thing will
become a source of danger to you ; you will be a con-
tinual temptation to yourself; you will be astonished to
find within you a still greater repugnance to duties :
and, as it is hardly possiI)le to stand out long against
yourself, you will soon become disgusted with a virtue
by which you sufiPer so much ; and, in consequence of
your having wished to be only a tranquil and easy pen-
itent, you will be an unhappy one, without consolation,
without peace, and consequently without perseverance.
To augment and multiply sacrifices is to abridge the
sufferings of virtue ; and, whatever we are induced to
spare to the passions, becomes the punishment and the
cause of disgust, rather than the mitigation of our pen-
itence.
The last disorder which had accompanied the sin of
the woman in the text, was the publicity of the scandai
attending her corrupt cond^ict. The scandal of the gos
pel, which was dishonoured in the opinion of the Ro-
mans and of so many other gentiles, spread throughout
Palestine, and they, witnessing the ill-eonduct of our
sinner, took occasion, no doubt, from it, to blaspheme
the name of the Lord, to despise the sanctity of his law,
to harden themselves in their impious superstitions, and
to look upon the hope of Israel and the wonders of God
as related in the holy books, as fictions invented to a-
muse a credulous people. Next, the scandal of the
place : Her ilLconduct had been conspicuous in the city,
that is to say, in the capital of the country ; from whence
Yol. I. ' f'6
1j8 àEitMuj\t xr
the report oi' fcucJi accidents soon circulated throughout
Judca.
Behohl the scandals for which her penitence makes
reparation ! The scandal of the law is repaired, by re-
nouncing the superstitious traditions of the Pharisees,
who had adulterated their precepts ; and by confessing
Jesus Christ, who was the end and the fulfilment of
them. For, too frequently, after having dishonoured
religion in the minds of the impious, through our exces-
ses and scandalous conduct, we again dishonour it
through our pretended piety ; we create for ourselves a
kind of virtue altogether worldly, superficial, and phar-
isaical; we become superstitious without becoming pen-
itent ; we make the abuses of devotion succeed to those
of the world ; the only reparation we make for the scan-
dal of our debaucheries, is that of a sensual piety ; and
we reflect more disgrace upon virtue, through the weak-
nesses and the illusions which we mingle with it, than
we did by our open and avowed excesses. Thus the
impious are more hardened in their iniquity, and more
removed from conversion, by the example of our false
penitence, than they had formerly been by the example
even of our vices.
Lastly, the scandal of the place : That same city
which had been the tlieatre of her shame and of her
crimes, becomes that of her penitence. She goes not
into retired places to give vent to her sorrows and her
tears ; she takes no advantage, like Nicodemus, of the
shades of night to come to Jesus Christ, nor waits the
opportunity of his being in a retired corner of the city,
in order to conceal from the eyes of the public the first
steps of lier conversion. In the face of that great city
which she had scandalized by her coaduct, she enters
THB WOMAJ^ WHO WAS A SlJ\'j^rER. 4Sfg
ïJito the house of the Pharisee^ and is not afraid of suÎ3»
Hiittiug to have^ as spectators of her penitence, those
who had been witnesses of her former crimes. For, of-
ten^ after having despised the worjd's opinion in de-
bauchery, it becomes dreaded in virtue : the eyes of the
public did not appear formidable to us during our dissi=
pation^ but they become so in our penitence ; our vices
jy-e carelessly laid open to view; onr virtues are back-
ward and cautious ; we dare not at first declare openly
for Jesus Christ ; we are ashamed to show ourselves iw
a light so new to us ; we have gloried in vice as if it had
been a virtue, and we blush at being virtuous, as thougk
it were a shame.
I As the fortunate sinner of our text had not been tim=
id in evil, so is she not timid in good ; she bears, eveiï
with a holy insensibility, the reproaches of the Pharisee^
who recounts, in the presence of all the guests, the infa-
my of her past manners. For the world, typified by
tliat Pharisee, feels a gratification in the mean pleasure
of recalling the former errors of those whom grace hath
touched : far from reaping any edification from their
present good conduct, it is continually dwelling upon
their past irregularity ; it tries to weaken the merit of
what they now do, by renewing upon eveiy occasion the
remembrance of what they have done ; it would appear
that the errors which they lament, authorize those which
we love, and in which we still continue to live, and that
it is more allowable for us ta be sinners, since real and
sincere penitents repent of having been so. It is thus,
O God ! that every thing worketh out- our destruction^
and that, instead of blessing and praising the riches of
Thy mercy when thou withdrawest worldly and disso-
lute souls from the ways of perdition, and instead of l^e
4;60 ^Eiijioj\^ XV.
ing excited by these great examples, to have recourse to
Thy clemency, always so I'eady to receive the repentant
sinner; insensible and blind to his penitence, we are oc-
cupied only in recalling his errors, as if we were enti-
tled from thence to say to ourselves, that we have no-
thing to dread in debauchery ; that one day or other we
shall likewise become contrite, and that the sincerest
penitents, having once been perhaps still more deeply
involved than we in mad passions, we need not despair
of one day or other being able to quit them as well as
they ! O inexplicable blindness of man, which finds in-
ducements to debauchery even in the examples of peni-
tence !
Such were the reparations of this sinner. But, if it
be an error to persuade ourselves that a change of life
requires only the cessation of our former debaucheries,
without adding to that those expiations which wash
them out ; it is likeAvise an error not less dangerous, to
consider these expiations as involving you in a situation,
gloomy, wretched, and hopeless. Thus, after having
mentioned to you the reparatioiTs of penitence, it is pro-
per that I should now lay before you the consolations.
Part II. Come unto me, says Jesus Christ, all ye
who are weary of the ways of iniquity ; take my yoke
upon you and learn oî me, for I am meek and lowly in
heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls ; for my
yoke is easy and my burden is light.
This promise, addressed to sinners, who are always
miserable in debauchery, is completely fulfilled in the
instance of the woman of our i^xi. In eiBTect, every thing
which had formerly been to her, in her dissipations, an
inexhaustable fund of disgust; becomes now, in her pen-
TUE WOMAM WHO WAS A SIjXXER 4,61
itence, a fruitful source of consolation ; and with Jesus
Christ she is happy, through the same means which,
during her guilt, had occasioned all her miseries.
Yes my hrethren, an iniquitous love had been her first
guiltj and the first source of all her distresses ; the first
consolation of lier penitence, is a holy affection for Je-
sus Christ, and the wide difference between that divine
and new love, compared with the profane love which
had hitherto engrossed her heart. I say the difference
in the object, in the proceedings, and in the reciproca-
tion of it.
In the object : the depravity of her heart had attached
her to men, corrupt, inconstant, and deceitful, rather the
companions of her debauchery than real friends, less
watchful to render her happy than attentive to the grat-
ification of their own inordinate passions ; to men, who
always join contempt to a gratified passion ; to Amraons,
in whose eyes, from the moment that they have obtain-
ed their wishes, the unfortunate object of their love be-
comes vile and hateful ; to men, whose foibles, artifices,
transports, and defects, she well knew, whom she in-
wardly acknowledged to be unworthy of her heart, and
to whom she paid attention, more through the unfortu-
nate bias of passion, than the free choice of her reason :
in a word, to men, who had never yet been able to fix
the natural instability of her heart. Her penitence at-
taches her to Jesus Christ, the model of all virtue, the
source of all grace, the principle of all light ; the more
she studies Him, the more does she discover his great-
ness and sanctity ; the more she loves Him, the more
does she find Him worthy of being loved : to Jesus
Christ, the faithful, immortal, and disinterested friend
of her soul, who is ronrerned for her eternal interests a-
46s SERMOJ^ XV.
lone : who is interested only in what may render her
happy 5 who is even come to sacrifice his ease, his glory^
and his life, in order to secure her immortal happiness ;
who has distinguished her from among so many women
of Judah, by an overflowing of mercy, when she had
rendered herself the most conspicuous of her sex, by the
excess of her wretchedness ; who expects nothing from,
her, but is willing to bestow on her far more than she
could ever have hoped ; Isistly, to Jesus Christ, who has
tranquilized her heart, by purifying it ; who has fixed
its inconstancy, and subdued the multiplicity of its de-
sires ; who has filled the whole extent of her love ; who
has restored to her that internal peace, which created
beings had never been able to bestow.
O my soul ! How long wilt thou continue to love in
earthly beings, that which is only thine affliction and
punishment ? Wouldst thou sufler more by breaking a^
sunder thy chains, than thou now dost in bearing them?
Would virtue and innocence be more painful, than
those shameful passions which at present debase and
mortify thee ? Ah Î Thou shalt find every thing light
and easy, in comparison with the cruel agitations which
render thee so unhappy in guilt. We may thus see the
difference in the object of her love.
The next difference is in her proceedings. The ex-
cess of passion had led her to a thousand steps, in op-
position to her inclination, her glory, and her reason :
had led her to make a sacrifice to men of her quiet, her
inclinations, her honour, and her liberty ; had led her
to shameful condescensions, disagreeable submissions,
and important sacrifices, for which their only return was
thinkinc: themselves more entitled from thence to exact
still more : for such is the ingratitude of men 5 the more-
THE WOMAjY who WAS A SIJ^WER. 463
jou allow them to become masters of your heart, the
more they make themselves its tyrant : in their opinion^
the excess of your attachment to them diminishes its
merit ; and they punish you for the fervour and the
shame of your transports, by taking occasion, even
from theuce, to suffer all, even to their gratitude, to be
«ooled.
Such were the ungrateful returns experienced by our
sinner in the paths of the passions! Butin her penitence
every thing is reckoned : the slightest step which she
takes for Jesus Christ is noticed, and praised, and de-
fended by Jesus Christ himself. The pharisee vainly
endeavours to lessen her merit, (for the world studies
only to diminish the value of the virtues of the just,) the
Saviour undertakes her defence : " Seest thou this wo-
man ? ■' said he to him, as if He thereby meant to say,
knowest thou all the merit of the sacrifices which she
makes to me, and how far the strength and the excess
of her love for me extend ? She hath not ceased to wash
my feet with tears, and to wipe them with the hair of
her head. He notices. He observes every thing ; a
sigh, a tear, a simple movement of the heart, nothing is
lost upon him of whatever is done for him ; nothing es-
capes tlie exactness of his glances, and the tenderness
of his heart ; we are well assured that we serve no un-
grateful master ; He overvalues even the slightest sacri-
fices. " Seest thou this woman ?^^ He would wish, it
appears, all men to view her with the same eyes that
He did : that all men should be as equitable in the esti-
mation of her love, and of her tears as himself : He no
longer sees her debaucheries ; He forgets a whole life
of error and guilt ; He sees only her repentance and
lier tears.
|,64? }>ERMO^Y XV.
Now, what a noble consolation for a contrite being,
to be able to say to biuiself, Till now, I have lived on-
ly for error and vanity : my days, my years, my cares,
my inquietude, my distresses, are all lost, and no longer
exist, even in the memory of the men for whom alone I
have lived, for whom alone I have sacrificed every
thing ; my sincerity, my attentions, my anxieties, have
never been repaid but with ingratitude : but henceforth,
whatever I do for Jesus Christ will receive its full esti-
mation ; my sufferings, my afflictions, the slightest sacri-
fices of my heart, the sighs and tears whicli I had so
often shed in vain for earthly beings, all shall be writ-
ten in immortal characters in the book of life : all these
shall eternally exist in the remembrance of that faithful
Master whom I serve : all these, in spite of the defects
mingled witli them by my weakness and corruption,
shall be excused, and even purified through the grace of
my Redeemer ; and He will crown his gifts by rewar-
ding my feeble deserts : I live now only for eternity ; I
no longer labour in vain ; my days are real, my life is
no longer a dream. O my brethren, what a blessed
gain is piety ! And how great are the consolations which
a soul recalled to Jesus Christ receives, in compensa-
tion for the trifling losses which it sacrifices to liim !
Lastly, The difference in the reciprocation of love.
The love of created bemgs which actuated our sinner,
had always been attended with the most cruel uncertain-
ties. One is always suspicious of an equal return of
love : the heart is ingenious in rendering itself unhap-
py, and tormenting itself with vain fears, suspicions,
and jealousies : the more generous, true, and frank it
is itself, the more doth it suffer : it is the martyr of
its own distrusts. You know this well 5 and it does
THE IVOMAX WHO WAS A SIXJ^'ER. 4:65
not belong to me to pretend to speak from tbis place
the language of your extravagant passions.
But what a new destiny in the change of her love!
Scarcely is her love of Jesus Christ commenced, wheu
she is certain of being beloved : she hears from his
divine mouth the favourable sentence, which in re-
mitting her sins, confirms to her the love and the af-
fection of Him who remits them : not only are her de-
baucheries forgotten, but she is urged to be convinced
in her own mind, that they are forgotten, parduued,
and washed out ; all her f\ars are removed, and no
more ground is left for mistrust or uncertainty ; nor can
she longer suspect the love of Jesus Christ, without at
the same time suspecting his power, and the faithfulness
of his promises.
Such is the lot of the contrite christian, on quitting
the tribunal where Jesus Christ, through the ministry
of the priest, lias remitted debaucheries, which he has
Avashed out with his tears and his love. In spite of that
uncertainty inseparable from the present state of life,
whether he be worthy of love or hatred, an internal
peace bears testimony in the bottom of his heart that he
is restored to Jesus Christ : he experiences a calm and
a joy in his conscience, which can be the fruit of right-
eousness alone. Not that he is entirely delivered from
alarm and apprehension on account of his past infideli-
ties, and that, in certain moments, more forcibly struck
with horror at his past errors, and the severity of God's
judgments, he is not tempted to consider every thing as
hopeless ; but Jesus Christ, who himself excites these
storms in his heart, has quickly calmed them ; his voice
still inwardly says to him, as formerly to Peter when
alarmed by the waves : " O thou of little faith^ where^
V(d, I, 57
fore doubtest thou?" Have I not' given thee suffictent
proofs of my kindness and protection ? Reflect upon all
that I have done in order to withdraw thee from the
ways of iniquity : I seek not with such perseverance the
sheep that 1 love not ; 1 recall them not from such a dis=
tance, to let them perish before my eyes ; distrust then
no more my affection ; dread only thine own lukewarm-
ness or inconstaucyc The first consolation of her pen-
itence therefore, is the difference of her love.
The second is the sacrifice of her passions. She
throws at the feet of Jesus Christ her perfumes, her
hair, all the attachments of her heart, all the deplorable
instruments of her vanities, and of her crimes ; and do
not suppose that in acting thus she sacrifices her plea-
sures ; she sacrifices only the causes of her anxieties and
punishments.
In vain is it said, that the cares of the passions consti-
tute the felicity of those possessed of them ; it is a lan-
guage in w hich the world glories, but which experience
belies. W hat punishment to a worldly soul, anxious
to please, are the solicitous cares of a beauty, which
fades and decays every day ! What constraint must
they put upon themselves, upon their inclinations, upon
their pleasures, upon their indolence ! What inward
vexations must they experience when these cares have
been unavailing, and when more fortunate charms have
attracted the general attention ! What tyranny is that
of custom Î It must, however, be submitted to in spile
of deranged affairs, the remonstrances of a husband, and
the murmurs of tradesmen, who dearly sell the necessa-
ry delays. I say nothing of the cares of ambition : but
what a life is that passed in designs, projects, fears, hope^
alarms^ jealousies; subjection^ a^d meanness Î I speak
THE WdMAM WHO WAS A SIjYJS'ER, ^67
mÀ of a profane connection : but what terrors lest the
iiiystery be laid open ! What eyes to shun ! What spies
to deceive ! What mortifying repulses ta undergo^ from
tlie very person for whom they have perhaps sacrificed
their hoiiour and their liberty^ and of whom they dare not
even complain 1 To all these, add those cruel moments,
when passion, less unruly, allows us leisure to inspect
ourselves, and to feel the whole infamy of our situation :
those moments in which the heart, born for more solid
joys, wearies of its own idols, and finds ample punish-
ment in its sensations of disgust and in its own incon-
stancy. Alas ! profane world ; if this be the felicity
of which thou vauntest so much, distinguish thy wor^
shippers, and, by crowning them with such happiness,
punish them for the faith which they have so credulous-
ly given to thy promises.
See what our sinner casts at the feet of Jesus Christ!
Her bonds, her troubles, her slavery ; in appearance, the
instruments of her pleasures, in truth, the source of all
her afflictions. Now, granting that this were the only
consolation of virtue, is it not a sufficiently noble one, t©
be delivered from the keenest anxieties of the passions ?
To have your happiness no longer dependent upon ths
inconstancy, the perfidy, and the injustice of man ; to
have placed yourself beyond the reach of events ; to pos-
sess in your awn heart all that is wanting towards your
happiness, or to be sufficient, as I may say, to yourself?
What do you lose in sacrificing gloomy and anxious
cares, in order to find peace and inward joy ; and to loss
all for Jesus Christ — is it not, as th& Apostle says, to
have gained all ? Thy faith hath made thee whole, said
the Saviour to the woman ; go in peace. Behold the
treasure which she receives in return for the passioni^
4GS SEIiMOJ\' XV.
sacrificed to liim ; behold the reward and the consolation
of her tears and of her repentance,— that peace of mind^
which she had never, as yet, been able to find, and
which the world had never bestowed. Fools ! says a
prophet ; wo unto you, who drag on the load of your
passions, as the ox in labouring drags on the chains of
the yoke which galls him, and who rush on to your des-
truction, by the way even of anguish, slavery, and con-
straint !
Lastly, By her sin she had been degraded in the eyes
of men : they beheld with contempt the shame and the
infamy of her conduct ; she lived degraded from every
right which a good reputation and a life free from re-
proach bestow ; and the Pharisee is even astonished that
Jesus Christ should condescend to suffer her at his feet.
For, the world, which authorizes whatever leads to
dissipation, never fails to cover dissipation itself with
infamy ; it approves, it justifies the maxims, the habits,
aîMÎ the pleasures which corrupt the heart ; and yet it
insists that innocency and regularity of manners be uni-
ted with corruption of heart ; it inspires all the passions,
yet it always blames the consequences of them ; it re-
quires you to study the art of pleasing, and it despises
you from the moment that you liavc succeeded ; its las-
civious theatres resound with extravagant praises of pro-
fane love, and its conversations consist only of biting
satires upon those who yield themselves up to that un-
fortunate tendency ; it praises the graces, tbe charms,
the miserable talents which light up impure desires, and
it loads you with everlasting shame and reproach from
the moment that you appear inflamed with them. O
how wretched beyond description are those, who, in a
world which they still love, and which they find them-
THE WOMJLN- WHO WAS .2 SLYJ^'EH. 46P
selves incapable of doing without, drag on the misera-
ble wrecks of a reputation, either blasted or too slightly
repaired, and wherever they show themselves, arouse
the remembrance or the suspicion of their crimes !
Such had been the affliction and disgrace, with which
the passions and debaucheries of this sinner were fol-
lowed ; but her penitence restores to her more honour
and more glory than had been taken from her by the
infamy of her crimes. This sinner, so despised in the
world, whose name was never mentioned without a
blush, is praised for the very things w hicli even the
world considers as most honourable, viz. kindness of
heart, generosity of sentiments, and the fidelity of an ho»
iy love ; this sinner, with whom no comparison durst
ever be made, and whose scandal vvas without example
in the city, is exalted above the Pharisee ; the truth and
sincerity of her faith, of her compunction, and of her
love, merit at once the preference over a superficial and
pharasaical virtue : Lastly, This sinner, whose name
was concealed, as if unworthy of being pronounced, and
whose only appellation is that of her crimes ; is become
the glory of Jesus Christ, the praise of grace, and an
honour to the gospel. O matchless power of virtue !
Yes, my brethren, virtue renders us a spectacle, wor-
tliy of God, of angels, and of men : it rebuilds a fallen
reputation ; it renews our claim, even here below, to
rights and honours which we had forfeited ; it washes
out stains, which the malignity of men would wish to be
immortal: it reunites us to the servants of Jesus Christ,
and to the society of the just, of w hose intercourse we
were formerly unworthy : it calls forth in us a thousand
laudable qualities, which the vortex cf the passions had
almost for ever ingulphed : and finally, it attracts more
glory to us, than our past manners had attached sham&
and contempt. While Jonah is rebellious to tlie will of
God, he is the curse of Heaven and of the earth ; even
idolaters are under tlie necessity of separating him fi*om
their society, and of casting lûm out, as a child of infa^
my and malediction ; and the belly of a monster is the
only asylum in which he can conceal his reproach and
shame. But, touched with contrition, scarcely hath he
implored the eternal mercies of the God of his fathers,
when he becomes the admiration of the proud Ninevab;
the nobles and the people unite to render him honours
till then unheard of; and the prince himself, full of res-
pect for his virtue, descends from the throne, and covers
himself with sackcloth and ashes, in obedience to the
man of God. Those passions which the world praises
and inspires, had drawn upon us the contempt even ol
the world ; virtue, which the world censures and com-
bats, attracts to us, however unwillingly on its part, its
veneration and homage.
What, my dear hearer, prevents you then from ter-
minating your shame, and your inquietudes, with your
crimes ? Is it the reparations of penitence w hich alarm
you ? But the longer you delay, the more they multiply;
the more debts are contracted, the more you increase thtt
necessity of new rigours to your weakness. Ah ! If the
necessary amends discourage you at present, what shall
it one day be, when your crimes, having multiplied to
infinity, scarcely any punishment whatever shall be ca-
pable of expiating tliem ? They shall then plunge you
into despair ; and you will adopt the miserable choice of
casting ofiT every yoke, and of no longer reckoning upon
your salvation ; you will make for yourself new max-
ims, and modes of reasoning, in order to tranquilize
THE WOMAjY who IVAS A SLXJ^'^ER. ^i
your mind in freethinking ; you will consider as need-
less, a penitence which will then appear to you impos-
sible. When the embarrassments of the conscience
come to a certain point, we feel a kind of gloomy satis-
faction in persuading ourselves, that no resource is left ;
we quiet ourselves with regard to the foundations of
truths, when we see ourselves so far removed from what
they prescribe ; we fly to unbelief for a remedy, from
the moment that we believe it is no longer to be found
in faith ; and from the moment that the chaos becomes
inexplicable to us, we have soon settled it in our minds^
that all is uncertain. And, besides, what should there
be so melancholy and so rigorous in acts of atonement,
whose only merit ought to spring from love ?
Alas ! unbelieving soul ! You dread being unable to
support the holy sadness of penitence ; yet you have
hitherto been able to bear up against the internal hor-
rors of guilt : virtue in your eyes seems wearisome be-
yond suffering ; yet have you long dragged on under the
stings of an ulcerated conscience, which no joy could
enliven. Ah ! Since you have hitherto been able to
bear up against all the inward anguish, the feelings of
bitterness and disgust, and the gloomy agitations of in-
iquity, no longer dread those of virtue : in the pains and
sufferings inseparable from guilt, you have undergone
trials far beyond what may be attached to virtue ; and
doubly so, because grace softens, and renders even plea-
sant, the sufferings of piety, while the only sweetener of
guilt is the bitterness of guilt itself.
My God ! Is it possible, that, for so many years past,
I have had strength to wander in such arduous and
dreary ways, under the tyranny of the world and of the
passions ; and that I should be unable to live with Thee.
47 ;e s£RMoj\' xr.
uiKler all the tenderness of thy regards^ under the wing
of thy compassion, and under the protection of thy arm !
Art thou then so cruel a master ? The world which
knows thee not, believes that thou renderest miserable
those who serve thee : but we O Lord, know that
Thou art the gentlest and best of masters, the tender-
est of fathers, the most faithful of friends, the most mu-
nificent of benefactors ; and that, by a thousand inward
consolations with which Thou indulgest thy servants
here beiov/, Thou givest a foretaste of that eternal felicity
which Thou hast prepared for them hereafter.
'^iii.
(m )
SERMON XVI.
THE WORD OF GOD.
r.iT^U
Matthew iv. 4*.
Tt is written^ that man shall not live hj bread alone
but hrj every word that proceedeth out of the mouth
of God.
Nothing can give a better idea of the power and
sublimity of the word of the gospel, than the images em-
ployed by Jesus Christ to foretell its efiecls. At one
time it is a sacred sword, which is to divide father from
child, husband from wife, brother from sister, and man
from himself; to bend all minds under the yoke of faith,
to subjugate the Césars, to triumph over sages and the
learned, and to exalt the standard of the cross upon the
wrecks of idols and of empires ; and tluough this we
are shown its might, which the whole world hath been
unable to resist.
At one time it is a divine fire, spread in an instant
throughout the earth; which dissolves mountains; depop.
Vol. I. ^8
4i74 SE HMO M XVI.
ulates cities, peoples the forest, reduces to ashes profane
temples, inflames the minds of men, and makes them fly,
iike madmen, to death, in the sight of whole nations ; ,
and under these symbolical traits are figured to us the
promptitude of its operations^ and the rapidity of its vic-
tories.
Again, it is a mysterious leaven, which joins and re-
unites the whole mass, binds all its parts together, and
impresses upon them one general stamp of efficacy and
virtue ; overthrows the distinctions of Jew and Gentile,
of Greek and Barbarian, and gives to all the same name
and the same being: and thus may you comprehend
how great must be its sanctity and inward might, seeing
it hath purified the whole universe, and of all nations
made but one people.
At another time it is as a seed, which at first appears
lost in the earth, but afterwards springs up, and multi-
plies an hundred fold. And thus may you see, that the
fecundity arises not from the husbandman who sows, hut
from the invisible Author who giveth the increase.
But in the text, Jesus Christ compares it to bread,
which serves as the food of man ; and he thereby means
to inform us, that the word of the gospel is a powerful
and solid nourishment, often pernicious to such as re-
ceive it into a diseased and corrupted heart, and useful
only to souls who, with an holy appetite, nourish them-
selves with it, and bring to this place a heart prepared
to listen to it.
To confine myself then to this idea, I shall say no-
thing of the wonders which this word, announced by
twelve poor and humble men, formerly wrought through-
out the universe. I shall pass over in silence the sanc-
tity of its doctrine, the sublimity of its counsels, the
THE WORD OF GOJD. 47§
•
Wisdom of its maxims; and limiting myseîftotîie in»
struction, and to that wliicli may render the word of the
gospel w^iich we announce beneficial to you, I shall in-
form you, in the first place, what are the dispositions
which ought to accompany you to thi& holy place for
the purpose of hearing it ; and, secondly, in what dispo-
sition you ought afterwards to listen to it : tw o duties
which are not only neglected, but even unknown to the
greatest part of the believers, w ho run in crowds to the
Clmstian puipit, and which are the usual cause of our
ministry being attended v/ith so little fruit.
Part I. It is not the substance of external works,
says St. Augustin, which distinguishes the just from
carnal Christians : it is the invisible spirit which ani-
mates them. Pious actions are frequently common to
the good and to the wicked ; it is the disposition of the
heart which discriminates them. All run, says the A-
postle, but all reach not the goal, for it is not the samd
spirit w hich impels them.
Now, to ai)ply this maxim to my subject ; of all the
duties of Christian piety, there is undoubtedly none of
which the external part is more equally fulfilled by the
worldly, and by the pious, than that of coming to hear
die word of tlie gospel. All run in crowds, like the Is-
raelites formerly to the foot of the holy mountain, to hear
the words of the law. Our churches are hardly suffi-
cient to contain the multitude of believers : profane as-
semblies separate, in order to swell the audience of the
holy assembly at the hom^s of instruction ; and an age
which has seen the zeal of Christians so relaxed on ev=
ery other duty of religion, has not, it would seem, wit-
nessed its failure in this point. Nevertheless, of all the
ministries confided to the church for the consuramatieii
170 &ElijMOJ\' XVl.
•
of the chosen, there is scarcely any so unprofitable &9
that of the word ; and the most efficacious means whicli
the church liath, in every age. employed for the conver-
sion of men, is become, at present, its feeblest resource.
You, my brethren, are yourselves a melancholy proof of
tliis truth. Never was instruction more frequent than
in our days, and never was conversion so rare.
It is of importance, therefore, to explain the causes of
so common and so deplorable an abuse : now, the first
undoubtedly arises from the want of those dispositions
w hich ought to acco^ypany you to this holy place, in or-
der to listen to the word of salvation. And surely, if
St. Paul formerly commanded all believers to purify
themselves before coming to eat of the bread of life ; if
lie declared to them, that to confound it with ordinary
food was to render themselves guilty of the body of the
Lord ; we have no less reason to tell you, that you ought
to prove yourselves, and to prepare your soul, before you
come to participate in that spiritual food which we break
for the people ; and that to confound it with the word
of men, in your manner of listening to it, is to render
yourselves guilty even of the word of Jesus Christ.
The first disposition required of you by the sanctity
of this word, when you corao to hear it, is a sincere de-
sire that it may be useful to you. Before coming to our
temples, you ought privately, in your own liouse, to ad-
dress yourself to the Father of Light, to entreat Him to
bestow upon you that ear of the heart which alone makes
His voice heard ; to give to His word that efficacy, that
inward unction, and those attractions so powerful and so
successful in the conversion of sinners ; to overcome that
insensibility which you have manifested to all the truths
hitherto heard ; to fix those momentary feelings which
TUE WORD OF GOD 4/J^
you liavc SO often experienced wliile listening to us, but
which have never been productive of any consequences
towards your salvation ; to give us that zeal, that wis-^
dom, tliat dignity, that fullness of His Spirit, those pier-
cing lights, tliat divine vehemence which cames convic-
tion to the heart, and which never speaks in vain ; to
CJ-eate in our hearts the relish of those truths which He
putteth in our mouths ; to render us insensible to your
praise, or to your censure, in order that we may be
move useful to your wants, that the ardent desire to ac-
complish your salvation, may fully compensate for the
want of the talents denied to us by nature, and that wc
may honour our ministry, not by seekiug to please, but
to save vou.
And, surely, if the Israelites, before approaching;
Mount Sinai to hear the words of the law which the an-
gel was to announce to them, were obliged, by the order
of tlie Lord, to purify themselves, to wash their gar*
ments, and even to abstain from the holy duties of mar-
riage, in order to prepare themselves for that grand op~
eration, and to carry nothing to the foot of the mountaia
unworthy of the sanctity of the law they went to hear ;
is it not, says a holy father, much more reasonable, when
you come to hear the words of a more holy law, to bring
there at least those marks of faith, of piety, and of ex-
ternal respect, which evince in you a sincere desire of
conforming to those maxims which we preach to you ?
What, my brethren ! are the precepts of Jesus Christ,
the words of eternal life, to be listened to with less pre-
caution than the ordinances of a figurative law ? Is it
because they are no longer announced to you by an an-
gel from heaven ? But are not we, equally as he, the in-
struments of God to promulgate His word, and like Him^
^yS SERMOJ^ XVI
do we not speak in bis place ? Did tbe angel upon th©
mountain hear more marks of Divinity than we ? He
wrote the law upon tables of stone ; the grace of our
ministry engraves it on the heart. He promised milk
and honey ; and we announce real and everlasting rich-
es. The thunders of heaven, which accompanied His
menaces against the transgressors of the law, overthrew
the people who were struck with terror at the foot of the
mountain : but what were these threatenings and tempo-
ral maledictions, their cities demolished, their wives and
children led into captivity, when compared to that eter-
nal misery which we are instructed continually to fore-
tel to the violators of the law of God ? Separate what
we are from the ministry which we fill, and what is
there liere, cither less awful or less respectable, than
upon mount Sinai ?
Nevertheless, what preparations accompany you to
an action so holy and so worthy of respect ? It is perhaps
a vain curiosity which you wish to gratify ; an irksome
leisure which you are well pleased to have amused ; a
religious spectacle, the pleasure of which you wish to
share ; a custom whicli you follow, because the world
hath adopted it. Nay more. The desire, perhaps, of
pleasing a superiour, by imitating his respect for the word
of the gospel, and, in order to attract his regards, rather
than those of the divine mercy ! Again, perhaps views
still more criminal, and of which we cannot speak with-
out degrading the dignity of our ministry. No motive
of salvation leads you here ; no view of faith prepares
you, no sentiment of piety accompanies you to this place;
in a word, your coming to listen to the Holy Word, arises
from no motive of religion.
This is the first cause of the inutility of our ministry^
TJÎF WOSD OF GOD. 179
For, how is it possible, that a proceeding so profane
should furnish a disposition to grace ? And, that in this
multitude of believers, assembled in this holy place, the
goodness of God sliould distinguish you from among
the crowd, to open your heart to the word of life ; you
who have brought hither only those dispositions which
are most calculated to keep mercy at a distance? My
brethren, as religion hath nothing greater in one sense,
than as containing the doctrine and the truth, so piety
likewise knows nothing so important, and which requires
more religious precautions, than a proper attention to,
and the being well instructed in them.
The second feeling which ought to accompany you to
this holy place, is, one of grief and shame, arising from
the little IVuit you have hitherto reaped from so many
truths already heard. You ought to reflect upon those
feelings of compunction, which the Lord, through the
ministry of the word, hath operated in your hearts, yet,
which have never been attended with any success in re-
gard to your salvation ; and upon so many pious resolu-
tions, inspired in this place, which seemed to promise a
change of life, yet which have all vanished on the first
temptation. For, that which ought chiefly to alarm you,
is, that all those truths w hich have made only such mo-
mentary impressions on you, are so many witnesses,
who shall one day depose against you before the tribu-
nal of Jesus Christ : in proportion to the times that the
word of the gospel hath failed to touch you, even to re-
pentance, so many times liatli it rendered you more un-
worthy of obtaining the grace of rejientance. Faith on
this point, admits of no medium; and, if you depart un-
changed, you depart, in some respecis more culpable
than before, because, to all your other crimes, you have
added that of contempt for the holy word.
180 SEliMO.V XVI.
These are the reflections which ought to occupy your
faith, wlien you enter the assembly of believers; while
trembling over the past, you should ask yourself: Am
I going to hear a word which sliall judge me, or truths
which sliall deliver me ? Am I going to oflcr up to the
compassion of God a docile and willing heart, or to his
justice, fresh motives of condemnation against myself?
The truth has long since been announced to me, the
force of which my utmost deference to the passions can-
not weaken in my mind, (for, in spite of myself, it
makes me inwardly acknowledge the error of my ways,)
yet, have I taken a single step towards quitting them ?
I have long been warned, that the body of a Christian
is the temple of God , have I, in consequence, become
more temperate and chaste ? I liave long heard it said,
that, " if thine eye be evil, pluck it out, and cast it far
from thee ;'^ have I attained strength for such separations,
which I know to be so indispensible towards my salva-
tion ? 1 have long been told, that to defer, as I have
done, fmm day to day, my penitence, is to be determin-
ed to die in sin : do I, even now, find myself more dis-
posed to quit my deplorable situation, and with a wil-
ling heart to begin the work of my salvation ?
Great God ! Cease not to give me a heart susceptible
to truths, which always affect, but never change me ; and
punish not the abuse which I make of Thy word, by
depriving it, with regard to me, of that efficacy which
Thou still permittest it to have, in order to recall me
from my errors to penitence 1 And, my brethren, how
many believers who listen to me, sensible formerly to
those truths which we announce, offer them now, only a
tranquil and hardened heart ! They neglected those hap-
py times, when Grace was yet willing to open this way
THE WORD OF GOD. ^gl
of conversion ; and ever since this fatal negligence, they
listen with indifference, and the most terrible truths, af-
fect tlrem no more than sounding brass and tinkling cym-
bals.
Now, I ask you my brethren, if tliis feeling of sorrow
for the little advantage you have hitherto reaped from so
many instrnctioiis, is even known to you ? 1 ask you in
particular, women of the woild, if the outward show,
witli which you appear in this place, evinces that dispo-
sition ? Do not the same indecent and vain cares, which
fit you for profane spectacles, accompany you to the
scene of our instructions, where the workl is condem-
ned ? Do you make the smallest difference tliere in your
appearance ? And does it not seem, either that we arc
to iircach the foolisli maxims of the theatre, or that
you come only for the purpose of insulting tlie holy max-
ims of the gospel, by a deportment, indecent even in the
eyes of the world.
Nay, more : Far from reproaching yourselves with
so many truths, heard hitherto without fruit, alas! you
are perhaps delighted at your insensibility ; you per-
haps pride yourselves, and indulge a deplorable vanity,
in listening tons with indifference ; you perhaps consid-
er it as giving you an air of consequence, and as a proof
of superiority of niind, that what others are affected by,
leaves you tranquil and calm ; and you perhaps make
a vain boast of your insensibility. It seems, that in
you it would be a weakness to be affected by truths,
which formerly triumphed over philosophers and Caî-
sars ; by truths, evidently come down from heaven,
and which bear with them such divine marks of subli-
mity and wisdom ; by truths which do such honour to
man, and which are alone worthy of reason; by truths,
Vn]. T. .^9
^o soothing and consolatory to the heart, and alone calcii-
kited to bestow internal tranquility and peace ; by truths
in fme, which relate to interests so important, and to-
wards which we can never be indifferent, w ithout folly
and madness. You boast of the little success of our
zeal, and that all our discourses leave you exactly as
they found you ; and iu declaring this, you think you
are doing lionour to your reason. I do not say, that
you make a boast of being in that depth of the abyss,
and in that state of reprobation almost beyond resource,
worthy botli of liorror and pity ; but 1 say, that the sur-
est and most established mark of a light and frivolous
mind, of a weak and limited reason, of an ill formed
heart, ecpially incapable of elevation and dignity, is
to find nothing which strikes, astonishes, satisfies, or
interests you, in the wise and sublime truths of the
morality of Jesus Christ.
For, sinners of another character still preserve at least
some remains of respect for, and a certain consciousness,
of the truth which subsists with a life altogether crimi-
nal, but which is always the mark of a good heart ; of a
heart which still retains a relish for good ; of a judicious
reason, which, though led away by the world and the
passions, knows how to do justice to itself, still feels
the force of that truth which condemns it, and leaves
within us resources of salva^tion and repentance. These
sinners, at least, acknowledge that we are right ; they
change nothing, it is true, of their manners ; but th«
iruth, at least, affects, disturbs, agitates, and excites
w^ithin them some feeble desires of salvation, and iiopes
of a future conversion ; they are sorry to find themselves
even too susceptible of the terrors of faith ; they are al-
most afraid of listening to us, lest they loose tliat false
THE VFORD OF GOJJ ^^^
tranquility, which is the only comfort of their crimes ;
Oil quitting the place of worship, they seek, in dissipa-^
tiou, to enliven a heart full of anxiety and sadness,
which the truths they have just heard have left in their
soul ; they immediately hurry into the world and its
pleasures, with that inward sting which the word of
God hath left in their lieart, in order to find some flat-
tering hand wiiich may draw it out, and close up that
wound fi'om which alone their cure ought to flow ; they
dread the hreaking of their chains ; they turn away
their head that they may not see that light which will
disturb th« comfcu't of their sleep. They love their pas-
sions, I confess, hut, at least, they insult not the truth ;
on the contrary, they render glory to its might, by erec-
ting defences against it ; they are feeble sinners, who,
dreading their incapability of defence against God, fly
from, and shun him. But for you, who make a vain-
glorious boast of listening to him with indifference, and
of not dreading him ; you consider it noble and philoso-
phical to have placed yourselves above all these vulgai*
terrors ; you believe that the pride of your reason would
be dishonoured by any religious dread; and, while you
are internally the most timid and cowardly of beings,
dejected by the first danger w hich threatens you, dis-
heartened by the smallest accident, and agitated by all
the hopes and fears of the world, you pique yourself
upon an undaunted courage against the truth ; that is
to say, you are possessed of every thing which is mean
and vulgar in fear, and you are ashamed of having
that only portion of it which is dignified and reason»
able ; you have no resistance to offer against the w orld^
and you make a vain parade of a senseless valour a-
gainst God.
4^4r SEJiM&J\^ XYL
The second disposition whicli ought to accompan j
you to the place of worship is, a feeling of sorrow for
the little fruit you have hitherto reaped from it — The
last disposition, is a grateful feeling for the means of sal-
vation still provided for you by God, in preserving the
sacred trust of the truth, and in continuing amid you the
succession of those ministers, alone authorized to an-
nounce to you the holy word.
In effect, the most terrible chastisement with which
God formerly struck the iniquities of His people, was
that of rendering His word rare and precious among
them. As He saith through his prophet Amos, '^ And
^* they shall wander from sea to sea, and from the east
" even to the west, they shall run to and fro to seek the
" word of the Lord, and shall not find it. '^ And, not
only did He cease te raise up true prophets in Israel^
but He likewise permitted false teachers to spring up a-
mong His people, who turned the tribes away from His
worship, and preached gods to them which their fathers
had never known.
Now, my brethren, it is a signal mercy of God, that,
notwithstanding the iniquities which seem to have at-
tained to their utmost height among you, He still raiseth
up to you proplicts and pastors, who preach a sound
and faultless doctrine. It is a most singular mark of
the protection of the Lord, that error hatli not been per-
initted to prevail over truth among us. And what have
you done to merit the being thus distinguished from so
many other nations ? Why is it that you are not invol-
ved in the same condemnation ? Why have you dwelt
in that happy land of Goshen, alone illuminated by the
lights of heaven, while all the rest of Egypt was envel-
oped in darkness ? Is it not from the mercy of God a-
THE WORD OF GOD. 485
ioiie, who hath marked you out from among so many na-
tions who applaud themselves in their error? You are
still under the care of your pastors ; you sdll receive
from their mouths the doctrine of the Apostles ; truth
still Hows upon you in a pure and divine stream ; Chris-
tian pulpits still resound in every part with the maxims
of faith and of piety ; and^ by preserving to you the doc-
trine and the blessings of instruction, the goo<lness of
God still provides for you a thousand means of salva.
tion.
Nevertheless, when you come to this place, do you
bring a heart filled with gratitude ? Do you consider it
as a signal blessing of God, that the truth and the holy
word, should still be preserved, and announced to you ?
Do you ever say with the prophet, '' He hath not dealt
^' so with any nation ; and as for his judgments, they
^' have not known them ? *'
Alas ! you bring here only vanity and distaste for re-
ligion ; the most wearisome of your moments are those
which you employ in listening to truths which ought to
compose the whole consolation of your life. We are e-
ven obliged to pay respect to your feelings of languor and
disgust, by often mingling human ornaments with the
truth, which is thereby weakened ; it would indeed ap-
pear, that we come here to speak to you for ourselves ;
and you give the same attention to us as you do to trou-
blesome mendicants who are soliciting your favour. You
have no regret for moments occupied by the frivolous
pleasures of a profane spectacle ; there alone it is that
every thought of business, of fortune, and of family, is
rejected as an intrusion, and that, all else forgotten, the
mind, formed for more serious matters, feasts with avidi-
ty on chimerical adventures : and frora thence you al-
486 SERMOJ^ XYL
ways come out occupied and delighted witî? the lascivf-
ous maxims promulgated by a criminal theatre. You
dwell with transport on those parts which have made
the most dangerous impressions upon the heart ; you
come filled with their remembrance, even to the foot of
the altar. These images, so fatal to innocence, can no
longer be effaced ; while, on quitting the holy word, the
only portion retained by your memory is, perhaps, the
defects of him who hath announced it to you.
My brethren, God no longer punishcth in a grievous
manner the contempt of his word. He, no doubt, might
still transport his gospel amidst those barbarous nations
who have never heard his name, and abandon anew his
heritage : He might draw from out of their deserts fe-
rocious and infidel nations, and deliver up to them our
temples and our habitations, as He formerly delivered
up those celebrated churches, which the TertuUians,
the Cyprians, and the Augustins had illustrated, and
where now not a trace of Christianity remains, but in
the insults which Jesus Christ there receives, and in the
shackles with which believers are there loaded : He
might do it ; but He avengeth himself more secretly,
and perhaps more terribly. He leaveth to you «till the
spectacle and all the outward ceremony of the preaching
of the gospel, but He turneth the whole fruit of it upon
the simple and ignorant inhabitants of the country, and
the terrors of faith e^ist only for them. He no longer
witbdraweth his prophets from cities ; but He taketh a-
way from them, if 1 may venture to say so, the power
and the influence of their ministry. He striketh these
holy clouds with dryness and unfruitfulness ; He rai-
scth up to you those who render truth flowery and beau-
tiful, but who do not render it amiable ; w^io please^
THE WORD OF GOD. 487
but who do uot convert you : He perraitteth tlie holy
terrors of his doctrine to be weakened in our mouths :
He no longer draweth forth from the treasures of his
mercy, illustrious characters like those raised up in the
ages of our forefathers, who renewed cities and king-
doms, led the great and the people, and chan{i;cd the
palaces of kings into houses of penitence : He permit-
teth that we, weak men, should succeed to these apos-
tolic benefactors.
Again — We draw together, like Paul formerly in
Athens, idle and curious spectators, whose only view
is that of hearing something new ; while those who per-
form the functions of their ministry among your vassals,
«ee with feelings of consolation, like Esdras formerly,
tlie simple Israelites at their feet, Avho are unable to re-
tain their tears while hearing only the words of the law.
We amuse the leisure and the idleness of princes and
the great of the earth, while, in the country, holy minis-
ters bring forch Jesus Christ, and reap an abundant
harvest : in a word, we preach, and they convert. It
is thus, O mv God ! that in secret thou exercisest severe
and terrible judgments.
But, my brethren, why may not we say to you in this
place, what Paul and Barnabas formerly said to the un-
believing Jews ? " It was necessary that the word of
^' God siioi.ld first have been spoken to you ; but, seeing
'^^ ye put it from you, and judge yourselves unworthy of
" everlasting life, lo ! we turn to the Gentiles. '' We
shall therefore turn towards the nations hitherto aban-
doned, towards those poor and humble people buried in
ignorance, who cultivate your lands, and who will re-
ceive with faith and gratitude, that grace which you re-
ject. Ah ! our labours would be much more availing^
488 semmojY xvi:
our yoke more easy, our ministry more consoling ; we
should not then, it is true, reckon among our hearers
names celebrated in history ; but we would reckon the
names of those w ho are written in heaven : we should
not see assembled there all those titles, and splendid
dignities, which form the whole glory of the world which
passetli away ; but we would there see faith, piety, and
innocence, which compose the whole glory of the Chris-
tian w lio cndureth for ever ; we should not there be com-
pelled to listen to the vain applause which the language
of the preacher, and not the feelings of faith inspires ;
but we would behold those tears flowing which form the
immortal praise of grace : our pulpits might not indeed
be surrounded with so much pomp ; but our hearers
w ould be a spectacle worthy of angels, and of God.
Such are the dispositions of the heart which ought to
prepare you for our instructions. It is necessary now to
instruct you with regard to the mental dispositions with
which you ought to listen to us.
Part II. In order towards instructing you with re-
gard to the frame of mind with which you ought to lis-
ten to tlie holy word, it is required only to establish at
first what is its authority and its end. Its authority,
which is divine, demands a respectful and docile mind;
its end, which is the conversion of hearts, demands a
spirit of faith, whicli searches in it only such lights as
may enable it to quit its errors, and such remedies as
may cure its evils.
I say in the first place, that its authority is divine. .
Yes, my brethren, the word announced to you is not our
word, but the word of Him who sendeth us. From the
moment that we are established by Him in the holy
THE iVORB OF GOD. ^%^
iflinistry, through the way of a legitimate call, He willeth
that you should consider us as sent by Him, as speak-
ing to you here on His part, and as only lending our
weak voice to His divine words. We bear, it is true,
that treasure in vessels of earth, but it thereby loses no-
thing of its majesty. Like those pitchers which Gideon
formerly employed against the enemies of the Lord, the
sound may be mean and contemptible ; but truth, that
divine light which God hath placed within us, is not,
on that account the less descended from heaven, and is
destined, like the lamps of Gideon, to strike witli ter-
ror unfaithful souls.
Now, you owe, in the first place, to the authority of
this divine word, a pious docility and an attention to it,
rather in the light of disciples than of judges. In effect,
we lay open to you the rules of worship and of piety,
the decisions of the gospel, the laws of the church, and
the maxims of the holy. We come not here to give you
our own opinions, our prejudices, or our thouglits ; this
is not a pulpit of controversy, it is the place of truth ;
nothing which can afford room for disputation ought
ever to find place in the pulpit of peace and of unity ;
we speak here in the name of the church, and are only
the interpreters of her faith and of her doctrine.
How many, nevertheless, wise in their own conceit,
and who pique themselves upon sagacity and reason,
come here with a mind set against, and, as it were, -
watchfully upon its guard against all the terrors of the
holy word ! They boast not indeed, like the sinners we
have lately mentioned, of being callous to all truth ; but
they look upon our ministry as an art of exaggeration
and hyperbole ; the most holy emotions of zeal are only,
in their opinion, the studied tricks of huwau artifice ; the
Vol. I. 60
^9t| :iEMMOJ\ ATI.
most awful thi eaten iugSj only the sallies of a vain eio
quence ; the most incontrovertible maxims, discourse?
adapted rather to custom than to truth. Such, my breth
ren, is the deplorable situation in which the greatest part
of you find yourselves here. You inwardly set up in
opposition to that truth which we inculcate, the maxims
and the prejudices of the world, which contradict it; you
are ingenious in weakening in your own breast, by spe-
cious reasons, the pretended excess of our maxims ; you
come here to combat, and not to yield to the force, or to
the light of truth : you come here, it would seem, only
in order to enter into contestation with God, to invalidate
the eternal immutability of His word, to undertake the
interests of error against the glory of truth, and to be
the inward apologists of the world and of the passions,
even in that holy place destined to condemn and to com-
bat them. Ah ! suffer the truth, at least, to triumph in
its own temple; deny not this feeble victory, to that truth
which has formerly triumphed over the whole universe 5
oppress it, if you choose, amidst the world, and in those
assemblies of vanity wiiicli error collects, and where er^
ror is enthroned. Is it not enough that you have ban-
ished it from the world, and that it dare no longer show
itself without being exposed to ridicule and censure ?
Leave to us, at least, the melancholy cousolation of da»
ring still to publish it in the face of those altars which
it hath raised up, and which ought surely to serve it, at
least, as a place of refuge.
You accuse us of exaggeration. Great God I Thou
wilt one day perhaps judge us for weakening the force
and the influence of Thy word, in consequence of not
giving sufficient consideration to it at the feet of the al-
tars ! Thou wilt one day perhaps reproach us for hav^
THE WORD OF GOD. 491
ihg accommodated the holy severity of Thy gospel to
the indulgence and the degeneracy of our age ! And
Thou wilt perhaps range us one day among the workers
of iniquity, because the lukewarmness and negligence of
oar manners have taken from the word which we preachy
that terror and tliat divine vehemence, which can only
fee found in a mouth consecrated by piety and penitence.
How, my brethren ! The truths of salvation, such as
Jesus Christ hath set forth to us, would be incapable of
alarming consciences, were the mind of man not to add
extraneous terrors to them ! Did Paul then exaggerate,
when the Roman governor, in spite of the pride of a
false wisdom, and all the prejudices of an idolatrous
worship, trembled, says St. Luke, while hearing him
speak of righteousness, of temperance, and of the awful
spectacle of a judgment to come ? Did Paul then exag-
gerate, when the inhabitants of cities came strildng their
breasts, melting in tears at his feet, and bringing into
the middle of the public places the lascivious or impious
books, and all the other instruments of their passions,
in order to make a sacrifice of them to the Lord ?
You accuse us of adding additional terrors to the
words of the gospel; but where are the consciences which
we disturb? Where are the sinners whom we alarm?
Where are the worldly souls, who, seized with dread
on their departure from the place of worship, conceal
themselves in the deepest solitudes, and by holy excess»
es of penitence, expiate the dissoluteness of their past
manners ? The ages which have preceded us have of-
ten seen such examples. Do we ever witness such in-
stances now ? Ah Î Would to God, said St. Ambrose
formerly, that you could convict me of having inspired
a single soul with these salutary terrors ! Would to God^
said lie to some worldly sages of liis time, who accused
him of exaggerating the dangers and the corruption of
the world, that a s'ngle instance might support your as-
sertion ! And I may Scay to you here, with even more
reason than that illustrious character, would to God that
the consequences of ^^o blessed an indiscretion could he
shown to me! Would to God that you had examples
with which to reproach us, in justification of your cen-
sures 1 All ! With pleasure would we suffer the blame,
could but the success be shown to its with which we are
reproached !
Alas ! We pay only too much deference, perhaps, to
your weakness ; we respect, perhaps too much, customs
which a long usage has consecrated, through fear of
appearing to censure the great examples by which they
are authorized ; we dare scarcely speak of certain irreg.
ularities, lest our censures should appear to fall rather
on the persons than on tJie vices ; we are obliged to con-
tent ourselves with showing truths to you from afar,
which we ought to place immediately under your eyes ;
and even your salvation frequently suffers through the
excess of our precautions and our timid prudence.
Weakness moreover, often extorts from us praises,
where zeal ought to place anathemas and censures ; like
the world, we allow ourselves to be dazzled by names
and titles ; that which formerly encouraged men like
Ambrose intimidates us ; and, because we owe you re-
spect, we often keep back from you that truth w hich we
ou""ht still more to respect ; yet, after all this, you accuse
us of exaggerating, of over-straining truths, and of fash-
ioning from them phantoms of our own brain, in order
to alarm tliose wdio listen to us !
But. what advantage could we draw from an artifice
TUE WORB OF COB 14)3
SO unworthy of the truth confided to us ? These over-
strained and puerile declamations might suit the venal
eloquence of those Sophists, who, amid the Grecian
schools, anxiously sought to attract disciples to them--
selves, by vaunting the wisdom of their sect ; but for
us, my brethren, ah ! our wish would be to have it in
our power to render your path more easy, far from
throwing fresh obstacles in the way. AVherefore should
we dishearten you in the enterprise of salvation, by
starting chimerical difficulties ? It is our duty to smooth
such as may actually be found in it, and to tender you
an assisting hand, in order to sustain your weakness.
Meditate, my brethren, upon the law of Jesus Christ;
what do I say ? Only open the gospel and read ; then
shall you find that we draw a veil of discretion over the
severity of its maxims ; then, far from complaiuing of
our excesses, you will yourselves supply the deficien-
cies arising from our respect to your feelings, and will
say to yourselves what we dread to say, because you
could never bear it. Great God ! To bear his cross ev-
ery day; to despise the world and all it contains; to live
as a stranger upon the earth ; to attach himself to Thee
alone; to renounce all which flatters the senses, especial-
ly to renounce himself; to consider as happy those who
weep or who are afflicted — behold the substance of Thy
holy law, and what every Christian undertakes. 0 I
what can the human mind add to the rigour of this doc-
trine ! What could be held out to you more melancholy
or more formidable to self-love ? Your reproaches con-
sequently, are merely the vain language of the world,
and one of those fashions of speaking which no one ex-
amines, and every one adopts ; your conscience inward-
ly belies it ; and when you speak candidly, yon confess
"IQ^ sEl^Jro^r xvl
that we are in the right, and that the gospel is a preach-
er much more severe and more dieadful to the world,
and to those who love it, than we could ever be.
The first duty therefore, which the authority of the
holy word exacts of you, is a docile spirit.
You owe in the second place, to the authority of this
holy word, a spirit of sincerity and inward application
of it to yourself; that is to say, it is your duty to be a
rigorous examiner of your own conscience ; to have in-
cessantly before your eyes, on one side, the state of your
soul, and, on the other, the truths which we announce ;
to measure yourself according to that rule ; to search in*
to yourself by that light ; to judge yourself by that law ;
to listen to, as if addressed to you alone, the holy max-
ims announced to the multitude ; to consider yourself as
alone before Jesus Christ, who speaks to you alone
through our mouth, and who sends us here perhaps for
you alone. For, my brethren, no one here takes to him-
self that truth which attacks and condemns him ; no one
thinks himself an interested personage ; it would seem
that we form at pleasure to ourselves phantoms of the
brain, for the purpose of combating them, and that the
reality of that sinner whom we attack, is no wliere in ex-
istence. The lewd and dissolute person, recognizes not
himself in the most animated and most striking traits of
his passion. The man, loaded with ill-acquired wealth,
and perhaps with the blood and spoils of the people,
joins with us in deprecating that very iniquity in others,
and sees not that he judges himself. The courtier, con-
sumed by ambition, and who sacrifices conscience and
integrity every day to that idol, frankly acknowledges
the meanness of that passion in his equals, and consid-
ers it in himself as a virtue, and as an acquaintance
TiflÈ irOBD OP COD 49^'
with the science of courts. Every one continually looks
upon himself in certain favourable lights, which ejQTectu^
ally hinder him from ever knowing himself such as he
is. In vain do we mark you, as I may say, in the most
pointed manner ; you always inwaidly find out some
softened traits, which alter the resemblance. You whis-
per to yourself, I am not this man. And, while the
public makes application of such striking truths to us,
we alone either succeed in being convinced that they are
not drawn for us, or find out in them only the defects of
our brethren; in our own most exact portraits, we search
out foreign likenesses ; we are ingenious in turning the
blow upon others, which truth had given to us alone;
the malignity of the application is the only fruit which
we reap from tlie picture of our vices made from the
pulpit, and we rashly judge our brethren where we
ought to have judged only ourselves. And thus it is, O
my God ! that men become corrupted, misapply every
thing, and that even the light of truth seals up their eyes
to their own eri-ors, and opens them only to see in others
either what is not, or what it ought to have kept entire-
ly hid from them Î
Such are the duties which the authority of the holy
word exacts of you : let us now proceed to those attach-
ed to its end. Its end, my brethren, you know, is the
convei'sion of hearts, the establishment of truth, the des-
truction of error and of sin, and the sanctification of the
name of Jesus Christ ; all there is grand, elevated, im-
pprtant, and worthy of the most sublime function of the
hierarchy ; and consequently, it is from thence to be in-
ferred, that you ought to listen to us with a respectful
and religious spirit, which despises not the simplicity of
our discourses ; and with a spirit of faith, which seeks
456 SERJMoj\r XVI.
uothing huinau in it, nothing frivolous, nothing which
does not correspond with the excellence and the dignity
of its end.
I say a spirit of religious respect, which despises not
the simplicity of our discourses ; for, however enligh-
tened you may in other respects be, you ought not in
consequence of your pretended superiority of reason, to
claim a title to neglect the instructions of the Church to
believers. The unction of the spirit will always inform
you of sometliing here, of which you would pcrliaps
have remained ignorant. If possessed of that know-'
ledge which is the cause of pride, you will be strength-
ened in that charity which edifies. If your mind ac-
quire nothing new, your heart shall perhaps be made
to feel new things ; you will tliere at least learn that
your knowledge is nothing, if you be ignorant of the
science of salvation ; that you are but a cloud without
moisture, elevated, it is true, above other men, by your
talents, and by the superiority of your knowledge, but
empty of grace, and the sport of every wind and of ev-
ery passion in the sight of God ; and, lastly , That a
simple and pure soul, shall, in an instant, be taught the
whole in the bosom of God, and be transformed from
light to light ; while, on the contrary, after an entire
life of watching and study, and the attainment of an use-
less mass of knowledge and reason, you shall perhaps
reap for your portion only eternal darkness.
What a mistake, my brethren, to banish yourselves
from these holy assemblies, under pretence, that you al-
ready know enough, and perhaps that you are already
sufficiently versed in all the duties of piety, which you
have long professed ; or through the belief that Chris-
tian reading, and a small degree of reflection in private
THE JVORD OF GOB. 497-
go a greater way, and are attended with more benefit,
than all our discourses ! But, my dear hearer, if you pro-
fess piety and righteousness, what sweeter consolation
can you enjoy, than to hear published the wonders of
the Lord, the ordinances of His holy law, the truths
which you love and practice, and of which you ought
to wish the knowledge to Ife given to all men ? What
sight more soothing and consoling to you, than that of
your brethren assembled here at the foot of the altar,
attentive to the words of life, absent from the spectacles
of the world, and removed from the occasions of sin,
forming holy desires, opening their hearts to the voice
of God, perhaps conceiving the first fruits of the Holy
Spirit, and the commencement of their penitence ; and
to be enabled to join yourself with them, in order to ob-
tain from the Father of mercies, the completion in their
soul of the work of salvation, which He hath begun to
operate within them ?
Not but that the most consolatory resources are fur-
nished to Christian piety, by the meditation of the di-
vine writiugs. But the Lord liath attached graces to the
power of our ministry, and to the legitimate calling,
which you will not find elsewhere. The most simply
truths in the mouths of the pastors, or of those who
speak to you in their place, draw^ an efficacy from the
grace of their mission, which is not inherent to them j
the same book of Isaiah, which, when read from a char-
iot by the officer of the queen of Ethiopia, seemed to
her as a book sealed up, and only amused her leisure
without enlightening her faith; when explained by Phil-
ip, instantly became to her a word of life, and of salva-
tion. And, lastly, You owe that example to your breth-
ren ; that edification to the church ; that respect to th(^-— »^
Vol. L Ç1
408 sermojY xvl
%vortl of Jesus Christ ; that uniformity to the spirit of
peace and of unity, which binds us together. O ! banish
yourselves, if you choose, from those profane and crimi-
nal assemblies, where piety, alas! is always a stranger,
suffering, and constrained ; but here is its place, and its
home ; this is the assembly of the holy, seeing it is on-
ly towards their formation, that our ministry hath been
established, and still continues to endure in the church.
I have said, in the second place, that you ought to
feel a spirit of faith ; and, in this disposition, two others
are comprised : a love of the holy word, independent of
the talents of the man who announces it to you ; a taste,
formed by religion, which comes not here in search of
vain ornaments, but of the solid truths of salvation ; that
is to say, to listen to it, neither with a spirit of censure,
nor with a spirit of curiosity.
And, in effect, your love of the word of Jesus Christ
ought to render you blind, as I may say, to the defects
of those who announce it to you ; in a mouth even rude
and unpolished, you ought to find it lovely, divine, and
worthy of all your homage ; in whatever shape it be pre-
sented to you, whether decked with pompous ornaments,
or simple and neglected, provided its celestial traits are
still to I)e recognized, it preserves the same rights over
your heart. And, indeed, is any portion of its sanctity
lost by passing througli less brilliant, and less copious
channels ? Did the holy word of the Lord lose any thing
of its dignity, whether He formerly gave it out from a
bush, mean and despicable to the sight, or from a cloud
of glory ; whether He gave out his oracles in the midst
of the desert, and in a tabernacle covered with tlie skins
of animals ; or in the temple of Solomon, the most mag-
nificent which hath ever been raised up to the glory of
THE WORD OF G OR. 409
His name ? And ditl the faith of Israel make any dis-
tinclioiij when it was the same Lord wlio every where
spake ?
Nevertheless, how few among all those who listen to
lis, who do not constitute themselves judges and censors
of the holy word ! They come here merely for the pur-
pose of deciding on the merit of those who announce it,
of drawing foolish comparisons, of pronouncing on the
difference of our understandings, and in our sermons ;
they think it a merit to be hard to please ; they pass
without attention over the most striking truths, and which
might be of the most essential benefit to all; and the on-
ly fruit reaped by tliem from a Christian discourse, is
confined to the miserable pride of having, better than a-
ny other, remarked its defects. This is so truly the
case, that we may with justice apply to the greatest part
of our hearers what Joseph, when he became the preser-
ver of Egypt, said, through pure artifice, to his brethren :
It is not to seek food that you are come here ; it is as
spies, to see the nakedness of the land. It is not to
nourish yourselves with the bread of the word, or to
seek assistance and efficacious remedies for your evils,
that you come to listen to us ; it is in order to find out
an occasion for criticism, and to show your skill in re-
marking our defects ; which defects are perhaps a terri-
ble punishment upon you of the Lord, who, in conse-
quence of your crimes, refuseth more accomplished la-
bourers in his vineyard, who would have been enabled
to recall you to repentance.
But candidly, my brethren, however w eak our lan-
guage may be, do we not always say enough to over=
throw you, to dissipate your errors, and to make you iu=
wardly confess irregularities which you are unable to
500 SEHMOJK' XVI.
justify to yourselves ? Are such sublime talents required
to tell you, that fornicators, extortioners, and men with-
out mercy, shall never enter the kingdom of God ; that
unless you become penitent you shall perish ; and that
it matters little to become master of the whole world, if
you thereby lose your soul ? Is it not, in fact, that very
simplicity which constitutes the whole force, and gives
such energy to these divine truths ? And ought they to
be less alarming to the criminal soul, though in the
mouth of the niost obscure individual of the ministry?
And besides, granting that it were here permitted us
to recommend ourselves, as the apostle formerly said to
those ungrateful believers who were more attentive to
censure the simplicity of his appearance and of his lan-
guage, and, as he says himself, his contemptible figure
in the eyes of men, tlian touched with the endless fa-
tigues and dangers which he had surmounted, in order
to announce to them the gospel, and to convert them to
truth ; were it permitted, we might say to you, my
brethren, we sustain, solely on your sccount, the whole
weight of a painful and laborious ministry ; our cares,
our watchings, our prayers, the endless toils which
qualify us for, and accompany us in these Christian
pulpits, have no other object but tbat of your salvation.
O ! do not our pains entitle us at least to your respect
and gratitude ? Is it possible that the zeal which suffers
all, in order to secure your salvation, can ever become
the subject of your ridicule and censure? Pray to God
if you choose, that, for the glory of the church and for
the honour of his gospel. He may raise up to his people
labourers powerful in speech, men whom the mere unc-
tion of the Spirit of God renders nervous and eloquent,
and who announce the gospel in a manner, worthy of its
THE WORD OF GOD. 501
elevation and sanctity. But likewise, pray, that when
we happen therein to fail, youv faith may supply the
deficiencies of our discourses ; that youv piety may ren-
der to truth, in your own hearts, that which it loses in
our mouths ; and that, through your unrighteous feel-
ings of disgust, you force not the ministers of the gospel
to have recourse, in order to please you, to the vain ar-
tifices and colouring of human eloquence, to shine ra-
ther than to instruct, and, like the Israelites formerly,
to go down to the Philistines to sharpen their instru-
ments, destined solely to cultivate the earth : that is, to
seek in profane learning, or in the language of an hostile
world, foreign ornaments to emhellish the simplicity of
tlie gospel ; and to give to instruments, and to talents
destined to increase, to multiply, and to strengthen the
holy seed, a vain brilliancy and a subtlety which blunt
its energy and its virtue, and which substitute a false
splendour in the place of truth and zeal.
And now, my brethren, behold tlie last fault inimical
to the spirit of faith ; the spirit, namely, of curiosity.
You do not sufficiently distinguisli the holy gravity of
our ministry from that vain and frivolous art which has
nothing in view but the arrangement of the discourse
and the glory of eloquence ; you assist at our discour-
ses with the same view as Augustin, when a sinner,
did in former times at those of Ambrose. It was not,
says that illustrious penitent, in order to learn from the
mouth of the man of God the secrets of eternal life,
which I had so long sought, nor from the desire of find^
ding in them remedies for the shameful and inveterate
\vounds of my soul, and which thou, O my God ! alone
art acquainted with ; it was in order to examine whetii
(ir his eloquence corresponded with his great reputatioi]»
50^ nniiMo^ xri.
and if his discourses warranted the uabounded applau-
ses which his hearers bestowed upon him. The truths
which he announced interested me not ; I was moved
only by the beauty and the charms of the discourse.
And such is in these days, the deplorable situation
of numberless believers who listen to us ; who, like
Augustin, loaded with crimes and fettered with the most
shameful passions, far from coming here to seek reme-
dies for their evils, search for those vain ornaments,
which amuse without curing the afflicted, which are the
means of our pleasing the sinner, but have no influence
towards making the sinner displeased with himself.
They come here, it would appear, to say to us what the
inhabitants of Babylon formerly said to the captive Is-
raelites, " Sing us one of the songs of Zion." They
look for harmony and delight, in the serious and impor-
tant truths of the morality of Jesus Christ, and in the
sighs of the sorrowful Zion, captive in a strange land;
and require of us to flatter the ear while publishing
the menaces and the rigid maxims of the gospel.
O ! you who now listen to me, and to whom this dis-
course may be applicable, reflect for a moment, 1 entreat
of you, upon yourselves ; your case is, as it were, des-
perate in the eyes of God ; your wounds, become viru-
lent through their long-standing, leave scarcely a hope
of cure ; your evils are pressing ; time is short ; God,
wearied with having so long borne with you, is at last
on the point of striking and surprising you : behold the
eternal miseries which have been foretold to you, and
which happen every day to your equals. You are not
far distant from the fulfilment; we show you the terrible
sword of the Lord suspended over your head, and rea»
dy to fall upon you ; and, far from shuddering at your
THE WORD OF GOD, ;703
desiiny, or taking any measures to turn aside the im-
pending sword, you childishly amuse yourselves in ex«
amining whether it possesses a polish and lustre ; and
you search, even in the terrors of the prediction, for the
puerile beauties of a vain eloquence. Great God ! how
despicable and how worthy of derision does the sinner
appear, when we view him through Thy light.
For, my brethren, are we then here as upon a pro-
fane tribunal, for the purpose of courting with artificial
words the suffrages of an idle assembly ; or are we in a
Christian pulpit, and in the place of Jesus Christ, to in-
struct, to reprove, and to sanctify you in the name, and
under the eyes of him who sends us ? Are we engaged
in a dispute for worldly fame, an idle exercise of the
faculties, or the most holy and the most important min-
istry of faith ? Oh ! why do you waste your time on our
feeble talents, or seek human qualifications where God
alone speaketh and acteth ? Are not the humblest in-
struments the most suitable to the mightiness of His
grace ? Do not tlie walls of Jericho fall when He plea-
seth, at tlie sound of the weakest trumpets ? Oh Î what
matters it to us that we please, if we do not change
you ? Of what consequence is it to us to be eloquent
if you continue always sinners ? What fruit can we
reap from your applause, if you reap none yourselves
from our instructions ? Our only praise, our only glo-
ry, is the establishment of the reign of God in your
hearts; your tears alone, rather than your applause^
can prove our eulogium ; and we covet no other crown
than yourselves, and your eternal salvation.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME
'RINTKD BT DAVID ALLINSOX, KUHLINGTON N i
^ )n
e^
THE NEW YORK PUBLIC UBRARV
^" KEFERENCE DEPARTMENT
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